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I SHOULD 

SAY  SO 


J A ^ R J 
F jD  A a O 


I SHOULD 
SAY  SO 

JAMES 
MO  N TGOMEROT 
FLAGG 


NEWYORJC 

CEOVm  h.domn  company 


Copyright,  1912-1913 
The  Phillips  Publishing  Company 


Copyright,  1914 

By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


CONTENTS 


L 

Further  Down  East  . 

PAGE 

• 13 

11. 

The  Dinner  Party 

• 31 

III. 

Auto  Fois™-Auto  Moeurs 

. 49 

IV. 

Cream  or  Lemon  ? . . . 

. 69 

V. 

Unteresting  People  . 

• 91 

VI. 

Theaters  . . . . = 

. 113 

VII. 

Where  to  Summer  Well  . 

■ 133 

VIII. 

Parlor  Entertainers  . 

. 151 

CONTENTS— Continued 


IX.  “Come  Live  With  Me  and  Be 

My  Cook!”  . • • *..  * 

X.  The  Call  of  the  Sex  . 

XL  From  Gibson  to  Goldberg  . 


PAGE 

169 

189 

205 


I Should  Say  So  I 


ILL  USTRA  TIONS 

PAGE 

“Mother!  Fahtherl  Don’t  go  out  on  a night  like 
this.”  17 

— And  threw  him  back  into  the  sea  ..........  25 

“Have  )mu  met  Mrs.  La  Deeddah?”  ..........  33 

“Those  who  come  from  New  Rochelle.”  ......  39 

“Miss  Burke  is  so  chatty  and  entertaining” 43 

“Blinkensop  is  selling  this  because  he  wants  a 
more  powerful  car.”  53 

“This  car  isn’t  sold,  is  it?” 57 

“I  don’t  know  what  it  is,  but  do  it.”  61 

“You  mean  dim  irreligious  light!”  she  whispered 
naughtily  and  wittily  73 

I m sure  you  two  will  have  lots  in  common — ” 77 

Oliver  Herford  joins  them,  stirring  his  cup  of 
tea  with  a lady-finger  . 81 


I Should  Say  So  ! 

ILLUSTRJTIONS-Continued 

PAGE 

. 93 

Matthew  J.  Pillweather  

97 

Augustus  G.  Pest  

“We  can’t  afford  presents  this  year.  The  picture 
that  caused  all  the  trouble 

Don’t  balance  the  papers  with 

and  read  with  one  eye  and  drink  you 

the  other  . . • 

You  seem  to  be  gazing  into  a mattress  wi*  the 

cover  off  . . • • 

The  American  business  man 

necessary  to  blow  smoke  generou  y ^^7 

of  every  woman  m the  play 

135 

Bore’s  Head  Inn  

139 

Soldiers’  Monument 

Id3 

A Corner  of  the  ladies’  par  or 

hand.  She  never  took  a lesson 


I Should  Say  So! 


ILL  US TR  ATI ONS—  Continued 

PAGE 

Charlie  Towrie  as  Mrs.  Fiske . 155 

Bill  Irwin  tells  his  famous  story  of  the  greatest 
newspaper  break  . 159 

Old  Irv  Cobb':  “Git  Hung,  Nigger  — Git 

Hung!”  163 

“This  is  it!”  smiled  S.  H.  Ludwig  171 

“He  is  shown  a string-all  sizes  and  ages.”  ....  175 

“She’s  looking  for  a maid  herself,”  smiles  the 
mahout.  “That  is  Miss  Vera  Lipsalve  of  the 

Winter  Garden.”  181 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  prettily  and  made  a 
Carmen  movement  at  him  with  her  hips 193 

They  met  in  mid-air  199 

A.  B.  Wenzell’s  models  haven’t  anything  but 
evening  clothes — ^poor  things!  207 

Howard  Chandler  Christy’s  heroes  simply  love 
to  slide  on  polished  floors 209 


/ Should  Say  So! 

ILL  US  TRATIONS—-  Continued 

PAGE 

Harrison  Fisher  knows  what  the  tired  busmess 

man  likes 

Orson  Lowell  is  really  in  the  furniture  business  213 

May  Wilson  Preston’s— it  looks  easy,  but  isn  t.  . 

C.  D.  Gibson  has  a fountain  pen— hence  the 
Shredded  Wheat  effect  

Mr.  Morgan  goes  without  an  umbrella  w 

raining  ink  


I Should  Say  So  / 


FURTHER  DOJVN  EAS'L 


Publishers'  Note 


r-pHE  rugged  coast  of  New  lives 

1 for  this  coastwise  folk  kid  be^ 

of  those  rugged,  ^ of  the  cameo,  with 

fore  us  with  all  ^ ® "f  jf^^t  sympathetic  m- 

that  fidelity  to  sickening  > poetic 

sight  into  the  hearts^  o tempestuous  moods 

feeling  for  jo  his  present  pinnacle  as  a 

that  have  brought  Flagg  P ^ ^^.^tard 

novelist.  The  salt  *P““;  *^'4  ,„,;ons,  discordant, 

is  brought  to  your  very  nos  • t 

yet  haunting  cry  of  ^ powerful  lens  of  the 

flies,  .“7  humor  and  the  quaint  tribal 

s:;n,  t. 


I Should  Say  Sol 


Further  Down  Fast 

God  pity  people  at  Palm  Beach 
on  a night  like  this!’^ 

L Cap’n  Littlefield  put  this  over 
at  supper  on  Christmas  Eve,  Dec.  24th,  at 
his  residence  on  the  extreme  edge  of  the 
coast  of  Massachusetts,  near  New  England. 
His  dotter  continued  eatin’  her  fried  sword- 
fish  slab  unmoved.  Not  so  his  wife.  She 
upset  a whole  chunk  of  blueberry  cake 
down  her  throat  the  wrong  way  (just  like 
a woman!)  and  burst  into  unmanly  tears. 

‘‘What’s  smatter.  Mother?”  The  Cap’n 
set  daown  his  cup  of  “shells”  and  looked 
anxiously  over  his  owl  glasses  at  her. 

Mother  wiped  her  eyes  on  the  red  and 
white  tablecloth. 

“Narthin’,  Nathan,  cep’n  it  kinder  made 
me  think  of  our  boy!” 

“There,  there,  Mother!  Don’t  cry;  he’ll 


14  I Should  Say  So! 


be  here  yit—he  promised  he’d  be  here  on 
Christmas  Day — and,  by  Godfrey,  ef  he 
said  he  would,  narthin’  ain’t  a-goin’  ter 
stop  him!” 

“Why  would  he  go  to  seal”  she  moaned. 

“Wal,”  he  said,  “’twas  on  accaount  of  his 
bein’  scared  of  otterwobiies  1 Jes  listen  to 
that  pesky  wind!” 

It  was  really  terrific.  The  icy  wind  be- 
lascoed  around  the  clapboards,  reaching 
into  the  house  with  its  frozen  tenacles  like 
some  Boreal  octopus. 

The  house  rocked  like  a laundry  hamper 
in  the  blast,  and  the  snow  drifted  in 
through  the  chimbley  and  under  the  doors. 
It  was  sump’n  awful! 

There  propbably  never  was  such  a storm 
in  the  history  of  Massachusetts  as  this  here 
one.  Above  the  roar  of  the  wind  could  be 
heard  the  poor  freezing  clams  as  they 
dragged  themselves,  with  chattering  shells, 
out  of  the  icy  breakers.  The  whistling- 
buoy  seemed  to  whistle  “Gee-e-e!  This  is 
unprecedented!”  There  were  icicles  hang- 
ing from  every  breaker  as  it  broke  on  the 
breakwater. 


Further  Down  Fast  15 


“Come,  look,  Fahther!”  Cap’n  Little- 
field’s  dotter,  Elmiry,  had  left  some  pack- 
ages she  was  tying  up  with  scarlet  ribbon 
and  had  breathed  away  a space  on  the 
frosted  pane.  “See,  the  gale  hez  blowed 
your  dory  clean  up  outer  the  roof  of  the 
meetin’  haousel” 

And  it  was  so.  Cap’n  Littlefield  seen  it, 
b’gum,  with  his  own  eyes. 

He  shuk  his  weather-beaten  head  and 
went  back  to  the  tabil  with  the  readin’ 
lamp  onto  it  and  buried  himself  once  more 
in  his  copy  of  “The  Common  Law.”  The 
Cap’n  was  a notary-public,  and  hed  ben 
in  the  legislater.  Might  go  into  it  agin 
ef  he  felt  like  it.  He  would,  b’gosh,  unless 
lobsterin’  got  better. 

Lobsterin’  warn’t  what  it  was.  Every- 
thin’ was  goin’  to  the  dog-fish.  Tenny- 
rate  ’twouldn’t  do  a mighter  harm  to  keep 
up  his  readin’. 

The  Cap’n  hed  also  ben  a whaler.  One 
reason  his  son  left  hum— -(Don’t  care  for 
that?  Oh,  well,  turn  over  and  read  the 

ads.) 

Elmiry  went  back  to  her  Christmas  bun- 


16  I Should  Say  So! 

dils.  Mrs.  Littlefield  was  puttin’  away  the 
supper  dishes  under  the  sofa  and  tidyin 

up  generally. 

Suddenly  above  the  roar  of  the  storm 
they  heard  a faint  call.  It  was  from  the 

beach.  , , t • i 

“Listen!  What  was  that?”  Mrs.  Little- 

field  dropped  the  castors  with  a crash  on 
the  floor.  The  Cap’n  closed  his  book  re- 
luctantly and  looked  up  at  his  wife. 

“Gol-swamp  all  salt-hake!  he  cne  , 
“somebuddy’s  callin’  on  tbe  beach!” 

He  sprang  from  his  patent  rocker  and 
grabbed  his  golf  cap.  ‘‘Come,  Mother. 

Bring  the  lantern — come!” 

“Mother!  Fahther!  Don’t  go  out  on  a 
night  like  this—”  Elmiry  begged  on  her 

“Hush,  child!”  said  her  mother.  “We 
must  go;  someone’s  in  need!  It  might  e 

our  ...  • u 1 

The  word  was  swallowed  up  in  the  ava  - 

anche  of  snow  that  fell  smotheringly  m 

as  the  door  was  opened,  and  the  Cap  n 

and  his  wife  rushed  out  into  the  storm, 

blindly  toward  the  sea.  (Ocean.) 


“MOTHER!  FAHTHER!  DON’T  GO  OUT 
ON  A NIGHT  LIKE  THIS  ” 


Further  Down  E.ast  19 


Now,  Rough  Reader,  we  will  leave  these 
good  folks  making  their  way  in  the  teeth 
of  the  storm  to  the  cry  of  distress,  and  gaze 
upon  another  scene,  even  more  thrillin\ 
It  was  night,  at  sea,  and  the  waves  were 
runnin’  mountains  high.  On  the  wave- 
washed  deck  of  the  barkentine  “Salena  P. 
Peabody, of  Provincetown,  Mass.,  lashed 
to  the  lee-cuspidors,  was  a young  sailor. 
This  young  man’s  name  was  Lem  Little- 
field.  He  had  been  gone  from  hum  eleven 
months.  He  had  been  shipwrecked  hun- 
dreds of  times,  shanghaied,  and  marooned 
on  dessit  islands,  and  while  it  would  not 
be  strictly  true  to  say  he  had  been  eaten 
by  cannibals,  he  had  nevertheless  been 
chewed  by  them.  He’d  had  a pretty  dark 
brown  time  of  it,  by  and  large.  He  was 
the  only  living  thing  on  that  vessel,  barring 
a feeble  old  rat  that  couldn’t  jump  over- 
board on  account  of  sciaticy.  The  masts 
had  been  blown  plumb  out  of  their  sockets. 
The  rudder  was  unshipped  and  was  only 
hanging  by  a thread.  The  water  in  the 
hold  was  rising  rapidly  and  the  life  boats 
were  all  on  fire.  The  ship,  except  for 


20  I Should  Say  So! 


these  things  and  a terrible  list  to  port,  was 
in  first-rate  condition.  But  Littlefield  was 
annoyed.  In  the  first  place  he  was  an- 
noyed because  he  had  not  eaten  food  for 
thirteen  days.  He  was  annoyed  because 
the  ship  was  heading  for  a sunken  reef — 
he  knew  this  by  some  sixth  sense  of  the 
seafaring  man — he  was  annoyed  because  it 
was  snowing.  Every  little  thing  annoyed 
Littlefield. 

‘‘Breakers  ahead!” 

The  cry  would  have  rung  through  the 
ship  if  there  had  been  anyone  to  ring  it. 
But  the  man  who  was  supposed  to  do  that 
sort  of  work  had  been  washed  overboard 
the  day  before.  He  didn’t  have  such  a 
fine  voice,  anyway. 

There  came  an  ominous  lull  in  the  roar 
of  the  storm. 

Branketybung-slam-scrunch — ! The  “Sa- 
lena  P.  Peabody”  hit  the  reef! 

It  ripped  the  tar-wadding  out  of  her. 
Littlefield  was  frightfully  annoyed  at  this. 
He  found  himself  in  swimming.  He  was 
quite  weak  and  would  gladly  have  given 
up,  but  his  New  England  conscience  kept 


Further  Down  East  21 


him  ‘ afloat  and  he  feebly  made  his  way, 
a quarter  of  an  inch  at  a time,  toward  a 
light  that  he  dimly  saw  over  the  tops  of 
the  waves.  He  had  promised  to  be  hum 
on  Christmas  and  always  kept  his  word. 
But,  Lord,  he  was  only  human  after  all, 
even  though  he  did  hail  from  New  Eng- 
land! He  couldn’t  hold  out  for  many 
more  strokes — the  water  was  freezing  his 
heart-™~his  breath  was  coming  in  little 
sailor  pants-— the  light  ahead  was  gone- 
gone  . . . 

‘‘Hold  the  lantern  high,  Mother!” 

Cap’n  Littlefield  waded  waist  high  into 
the  icy  breakers,  while  his  wife,  hoidin’ 
the  lantern  above  her  head  in  the  whirlin’ 
snow,  cackled  words  of  encouragement  to 
him,  through  the  frozen  folds  of  her 
tippet. 

“I’ve  got  him.  Set  daown  the  light, 
Mother,  and  lend  a hand — ” 

The  two  dear  old  people  dragged  the 
lifeless  figure  of  a sopping  man  up  out 
of  the  reach  of  the  billows. 

“Somehaow,  Fahther — ” Mrs.  Littlefield 


22  I Should  Say  So  ! 


puffed,  as  they  carried  their  limp  burden 
up  onto  the  eel  grass,  “it  kinder  seems 
’propriate  to  be  savin’  a human  critter  on 
Christmas  Eve!  Pore  boy!”  She  held 
the  lantern  near  the  man’s  face. 

“It’s  our  boy,  Fahther,  it’s  our  Lem! 
Look!” 

“Ye  can’t  be  sure  jest  from  the  face. 
Mother.  Strawberry  marks  are  the  only 
sartin  things.  Hez  he  got  any?” 

“Don’t  be  foolishern  ye  can  help,  Fah- 
ther— it’s  our  Lem,  come  back  from  the 
grave — on  Christmas  Eve— -carry  him  up 
to  the  house,  quick!” 

The  dear  old  folks  carried  their  son, 
still  unconscious,  staggeringly  to  the  house 
and  laid  him  gently  before  the  Franklin 
stove. 

“Quick,  the  birch-beer,  Elmiry!  It’s 
Lem — come  back  to  us — ” Elmiry  leapt. 
They  plied  the  frozen  and  half-drowned 
lad  with  the  life-giving  liquor  and 
wrapped  him  in  hot  blankets,  and  slapped 
his  numbed  hands  and  feet  and  wept  with 
joy  over  him. 

The  fuss  that  was  made  over  the  Prodi- 


Further  Down  Fast  23 


gal  Son  was  a snub  alongside  of  the  rum- 
pus those  coastwise  folk  made  about  Lem! 

At  last  their  ministrations  were  reward- 
ed and  the  lad  opened  his  big  blue  eyes 
and  smiled  feebly  in  recognition.  The 
storm  could  storm,  and  be  gosh-darned! 
Then  they  fed  him  Election  Cake,  and 
Marble  Cake,  and  doughnuts  and  rasp- 
berry sherbit  and  fried  Puddin’  and  scrod 
and  fish  balls  and  appile  tunnovers. 

And  he  lay  back  in  his  mother’s  old 
arms  and  smiled  back  at  them  ail,  as  yet 
he  was  too  weak  to  say  anything.  They 
knew  that  when  the  birch-beer  began  to 
get  in  its  effects  he  would  chirk  up  an’ 
talk  to  them. 

He  lay  there  and  blinked  and  looked 
happily  around  at  the  old  familiar  conch- 
shells  and  dried  starfish  on  the  whatnot, 
at  the  crayon  portrit  of  his  idiot  brother 
who  had  voted  for  Bryan  twice,  at  the 
old  merlodeon  that  Elmiry  used  to  play 
‘‘Row,  Row,  Row”  on,  at  the  collection 
of  Royal  Worcester  vases  his  mother  had 
gotten  with  the  tea — all  the  old  things 
brought  glad  tears  to  his  eyes.  He  was 


24  I Should  Say  So! 


Hum!  Goshtermighty,  it  was  good!  He 

sighed  with  contentment. 

“Wal,  Lem,”  said  the  Cap’n,  strokin’ 
his  'boy’s  hair  with  his  great  rough  hand, 
and  smilin’  with  affection  too  deep  for 
mere  words,  “not  figgerin’  in  this  ship- 
wreck, haow’s  life  ben  treatin’  ye?  Did 
ye  make  any  money  on  your  trip  around 
the  world?” 

Lem  smiled  and  shuk  his  head. 

“Hmm — didn’t,  hey — hmmm!”  The 
Cap’n  scratched  his  head.  “Ye  knew  this 
was  Christmas,  didn’t  ye,  Lem?” 

Lem  smiled  and  nodded  his  head.  The 
Cap’n  pursed  his  old  lips  and  looked  up 
at  the  ceilin’.  Silence  for  a full  minute. 
The  Cap’n  slowly  withdrew  his  horny  old 
hand  from  his  son’s  fair  head. 

“I  s’pose  ye  brought  your  mother  and 
Elmiry  and  me  some  remembrance— 
Christmas  presents?” 

Lem  smiled  and  shuk  his  head. 

The  Cap’n’s  steely  blue  eyes  seemed  to 
harden  as  he  looked  sternly  at  the  lad. 
“Ye  knew  this  was  Christmas,  and  you 
didn’t  bring  me  and  your  mother  and 
Elmiry  no  presents?” 


. AND  THREW  HIM  BACK  INTO  THE  SEA 


Further  Down  East  21 


Lem  smiled  again  and  shuk  his  head 

gently. 

The  old  Cap’n  rose  painfully  from  his 
chair.  So  did  Mrs,  Littlefield,  So  did 
Elmiry.  No  one  spoke.  The  old  patri- 
arch motioned  with  his  grizzled  head 
towards  the  lad’s  feet,  and  Mrs.  Little- 
field, understanding,  mutely  lifted  one  in 
each  hand.  Lem  looked  up  at  his  stern 
old  father  with  questioning  eyes  as  the  old 
man  grasped  him  under  the  arm-pits. 
Still  no  word  was  said.  The  Cap’n  looked 
at  his  dotter  and  motioned  again  with  his 
wonderful  old  silver-crowned  bean.  El- 
miry opened  the  front  door  and  the  snow 
rushed  in.  The  old  people  carried  their 
son  out  into  the  storm  and  made  their 
way  against  the  suffocating  gale.  What 
if  their  fingers  were  frozen?  What  if  they 
did  catch  double  pneumonia?  That  sweet 
old  New  England  sense  of  justice  warmed 
their  hearts! 

They  carried  him  out  to  the  end  of  the 
jetty,  never  faltering,  and  threw  him  back 
into  the  seal 


/ Should  Say  So  ! 


% 


THE  DINNER  PARTY 


X 


/ Should  Say  So  I 


The  Dinner  Party 

I’M  AFRAID  we  are  a little  early!” 
Your  wife  throws  this  remark  out 
lightly  as,  on  entering  your  hostess’ 
apartment  she  sees  no  one  in  the  drawing- 
room. 

No  answer. 

She  follows  the  guiding  maid  to  the 
ladies’  cloak-room.  “No,  gentlemen’s 
room  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  please!” 
“Oh!” 

While  Polly,  your  wife,  is  trying  to 
kill  time  in  two  ways,  with  pink  powder 
before  the  mirror,  you  in  the  men’s  room 
are  also  stabbing  eternity  by  peering  with- 
out interest  at  various  photos  of  unknown 
people  that  adorn  the  chifTonier  and  walls, 
and  mildly  wondering  who  the  devil 
“Fondly  Theodora”  was. 

Then  you  think  you  can  trace  a re- 


32  I Should  Say  So  / 


semblance  to  your  nost  in  the  man  on 
the  end  in  the  yellowed  photo  of  the 
Princeton  Glee  Club  of  ’89.  You  have 
now  reached  the  door  and  see  Polly  stand- 
ing in  her  doorway. 

“What  time  is  it,  Paul?” 

“Twenty  to  eight.  Gee!  We’re  always 
the  first  at  every  dinner-party  we  go  to—” 
“And  we  didn’t  go  right  down  to  the 
car  when  it  was  announced  just  for  that 
reason.  You  know  how  we  sat  stifif  and 
bundled  up  in  our  drawing-room.  Next 
time  let’s  be  late,  really!” 

“We  always  say  that,  too;  why  do  peo- 
ple say  7:30  if  they  don’t  mean  it — ” 

“Sh!  There  comes  some  one  else!” 
You  step  back  into  the  room,  and  an- 
other gentleman  says  “Oh!”  as  the  maid 
steers  him  to  the  right  room.  You  and 
the  next  comer  eye  each  other,  start  to 
speak,  think  better  of  it,  and  cough;  then, 
with  hands  clasped  behind  you,  you  begin 
to  examine  the  photos  and  match-trays 
again  with  a remarkable  appearance  of 
sincere  interest.  The  other  man  starts  at 
the  other  side  of  the  room,  doing  the  same 


“ HAVE  YOU  MET  MRS.  LA  DEEDDAH  ? ” 


The  Thinner  Party  35 


thing;  you  come  together  with  a bump. 
Great  surprise! 

‘‘I  beg  pardon!” 

‘‘I  beg  yours!  Quite  chilly^  isn’t  it?” 

‘‘Yes,  indeed;  it’s  getting  colder.” 

These  banalities  unite  you  two  in  a 
common  hostility  toward  the  next  man 
who  enters  and  deposits  his  hat  and  coat 
on  the  bed. 

Although  all  three  are  strangers,  the 
relative  position  for  the  moment  is  that 
you  and  No.  2 are  old  college  chums,  and 
No.  3 is  a rank  outsider — probably  studied 
bookkeeping  by  correspondence. 

The  relations  are  miraculously  changed 
the  next  instant  by  the  entrance  of  No.  4, 
who  greets  No.  2 warmly — “how’s  the 
boy?”  etc.  This  puts  you  in  the  rank  out- 
sider class  again,  with  a slight  affection 
for  No.  3. 

“Let’s  go  in,  eh?”  says  No.  2 to  No.  4. 

All  four  step  on  each  other’s  toes.  “After 
you”;  “No,  after  you”;  fatuous  waving  of 
palms  and  mock-serious  bows;  exit.  And 
enter  drawing-room,  where  you  can  im- 
mediately distinguish  the  hostess  by  her 


36  I Should  Say  So  / 


hysterically  hospitable  manner.  There  are 

several  women  with  her.  One  of  them 
slyly  drops  a lighted  cigarette  into  the 
fireplace. 

Introductions.  Hostess  presents  you  to 
a dog-collar  and  a rope  of  you-can’t-tell- 
’em-from-the-real~thing-pearls. 

“Have  you  met  Mrs.  La  Deeddah,  Mr. 
Punctual? — Adr.  Paul  Pantoum  Punctual, 
the  poet.” 

“I  haven’t  had  the  pleasure,  although  I 
have  been  presented  to  her  seven  or  nine 
times  this  winter!” 

Mrs.  La  Deeddah  gives  you  an  “Iron 
Maiden”  look,  as  much  as  to  say,  “I  got- 
cher,  Steve,  and  I’d  like  to  hand  you  one 
if  I wasn’t  such  a little  queen!” 

“Mrs.  Soulful,  I want  you  to  meet  Mrs. 
Punctual,  the  wife  of  Paul  Pantoum  Punc- 
tual, the  poet.”  “Howdydo?”  gurgles  the 
dame  with  no  eyelashes  who  has  been  told 
by  some  social  Angora  she  looks  like  the 
Mona  Lisa.  She  has  played  the  role  ever 
since,  smiling  mysteriously,  as  if  she  had 
swallowed  a safety-pin,  but  was  reassuring 
herself  that  it  was  closed. 


The  Dinner  Party  31 


‘‘Do  you  write,  too?’’ 

“Yes,”  smiles  our  wife, — “I  write  laun- 
dry-lists on  Monday  morning  and  market- 
lists  every  day!” 

Thereby  is  Moany  Liz  set  back  eight 
spaces  on  the  parchesi-board. 

Cigarettes  are  offered. 

“Oh,  I was  croaking  for  one!”  sighs  a 
delighted  young  cigarette  fiend  in  a Luciie 
gown.  “May  I?”  “Indeed  you  may--^ 
this  is  Libertine  Hall!”  laughs  the  host. 
He  gets  that  off  at  every  dinner  party. 
“Oh,  aren’t  you  terrible!”  approves  a blue- 
eyed lady  with  an  unterrified  bosom. 

A maid  catches  the  wild  and  nervous  eye 
of  Hostess.  Whispered  conference.  Then 
Hostess  announces,  “We  won’t  wait  an- 
other minute  for  Bert  and  Carrie  Nabor. 
We’ve  given  them  twenty  minutes’  grace. 
Shall  we  go  in?  Probably  the  dinner  is 
spoiled  as  it  is!” 

The  bell  rings,  and  Bert  and  Carrie 
arrive  breathless, 

“So  sorry!  Couldn’t  help  it.” 

“Do  they  live  out  of  town?”  you  whis- 
per to  Hostess. 


38  I Should  Say  So! 


^^Out  of  town,  nothing!  They  live  right 
on  this  block — eleven  doors  down!” 

“Isn’t  it  the  limit?” 

You  sententiously  remark  that  those  who 
come  from  New  Rochelle  in  Arctic  hip- 
boots  always  arrive  at  a party  before  the 
Hostess’'  last  hook  has  joined  her  last  eye 
in  holy  wedlock — before  the  Host  has 
taken  the  brown-paper  patch  off  the  safety- 
razor  cut  on  his  chin! 

“Say  too  zhoor  come  sar,”  laughs  Host- 
ess, absent-mindedly  helping  herself  so 
generously  to  the  caviar  that  three  people 
at  the  other  end  of  the  table  have  to  divide 
six  sturgeons’  eggs  between  them. 

You  are  an  observing  man,  so  you  notice 
that  one  oRthe  serving-maids  is  extremely 
efficient,  and  has  that  indefinable  air  of 
having  been  in  the  family  for  years.  It  is 
hard  to  say  just  what  gives  that  impression, 
but  you  can  always  tell.  It  must  be  a 
joy  to  have  a good  servant  for  years — 
even  for  months.  There  is  something 
about  this  maid — 

Your  Hostess  smiles  at  you,  and  whis- 
pers: “You  remember  Selma — I saw  you 


THOSE  WHO  COME  FROM  NEW  ROCHELLE  " 


The  Dinner  Party  41 


looking  at  her.  Polly  gave  me  her  tele- 
phone number!’’ 

At  every  dinner  party  you  go  to  during 
the  winter  Selma  waits  upon  you  with  that 
same  unmistakable  air  of  having  been  in 
the  family.  It  gets  so,  it  is  with  difficulty 
that  you  remember  exactly  where  you  are. 

Conversation  at  a dinner  party  is  neces- 
sarily, under  the  conditions,  an  awful  thing, 
the  rule  being  that  a pause  on  the  part 
of  any  one  of  the  contestants  is  a social 
lapse,  and  not  to  be  tolerated.  The  cold- 
storage  snicker  and  the  tinned  chuckle  are 
in  constant  demand. 

If  everybody  by  the  • laws  of  chance 
happens  to  be  silent  simultaneously  (such 
dreadful  lacuna  do  occur  even  at  the  most 
carefully  cocktailed  and  subsequently  al- 
coholized dinners),  then  your  party  loses 
and  the  dinner-party  next  door  wins. 

Here  are  a few  remarks  that  are  being 
used  this  century: 

‘‘Yes,  you  begin  at  the  outside  and  work 
toward  your  plate;  that  brings  you  out 
right.” 

“I  had  such  a time  separating  husbands 


42  I Should  Say  So  ! 


and  wives — I guess  you  can  stand  sitting 
next  to  Walter  for  one  evening,  can’t  you? 
That  was  all  because  George  didn’t  show 
up!” 

^^Did  you  hear  Charlie  Towne’s  latest?” 

“I  go  to  the  theater  to  be  amused. 
There’s  enough  tragedy  in  real  life.” 

“She  lost  eighty  pounds  in  a week,  but 
she  looks  like  a hag  now!” 

In  magazine  stories  it  is  always  “at  a 
signal  from  the  hostess  the  ladies  rose  and 
retired  to  the  drawing-room,”  as  if  friend 
hostess  ran  up  a flag  or  yanked  a sema- 
phore. 

You  dive  for  the  usual  dropped  hand- 
kerchiefs, the  hostess  wags  a playful  finger 
at  you  all  and  says:  “Now  don’t  stay  in 
here  for  hours!” 

The  dullest  moment  has  arrived. 

The  host  struts  about  opening  cigar- 
boxes  and  liqueur  bottles,  just  as  if  he 
felt  quite  at  home. 

You  know  exactly  how  the  poor  lump 
feels.  You  are  sorry  for  him — a little. 
You  know  how  hard  it  is  trying  to  appear 
natural,  hospitable,  and  gay,  and  how  he 


MISS  BULKE  IS  SO  CHATTY  AND  ENTERTAINING” 


! 


i 

I 


The  Dinner  Party  45 


hasn’t  anything  to  say  and  pretending  he 
has  van-loads  of  cute  remarks  up  his  sleeve. 

Later,  when  the  maid  says  your  car  is 
at  the  door  your  hostess  says  sweetly,  “Must 
you  go?  Well,  you  won’t  mind  dropping 
Miss  Bulke  on  your  way,  will  you?” 

Bulky,  old  girl,  says,  inhaling  it,  “Oh, 
no,  I don’t  want  to  trouble  them!  Call 
me  a taxi!” 

“Oh,  no,  dear,  I’m  sure  they  will  be 
only  too  delighted! — Won’t  you?” 

“Oh,  too  delighted!  Where  do  you  live, 
Alma?” 

“One  Hundred  and  Seventyminth  Street! 
But  you’re  sure  it  won’t  be  taking  you  out 
of  your  way?” 

“Not  at  all-— we  live  in  Thirty-seventh 

Street!” 

Miss  Bulke  is  so  chatty  and  entertain- 
ing as  we  take  her  up  to  Newburgh! 


/ Should  Say  So  ! 


AUTO  FOIS—AUTO  MOEURS 


I Should  Say  So  ! 


Auto  Fois — Auto  Moeurs 

Which  is  Swedish  for 

The  Point  of  View  Changes  with  the  Income 

Ten  years  ago  you  and  Polly  went 
about  in  the  street-cars. 

Five  years  ago  you  used  taxis  oc- 
casionally. 

At  that  period  you  said,  “If  I had  an  * 
automobile,  I think  I could  send  for  my 
friends  once  in  a while!  Why,  it  would 
be  half  my  pleasure  in  having  a car  to 
put  at  the  disposal  of  my  friends!” 

Polly  agreed  with  you. 

You  continued:  “It  isn’t  as  if  automo- 
biles could  catch  pneumonia — ” 

“I  don’t  think  you  and  I could  be  as 
thoughtless  and  selfish  as  some  of  our  rich 
friends,  could  we?”  Polly  remarked. 

“No,”  you  asserted  warmly.  “It  isn't 


50  I Should  Say  So  / 


that  we  put  ourselves  up  as  being  saintly, 
or  any  rot  like  that,  but — ” 

“No,”  agreed  Polly.  “I  know  what  you 
mean — we  simply  aren’t  built  that  way. 
We  shouldn’t  be  happy  if  we  thought  some 
of  our  poorer  friends  had  to  struggle  up 
to  our  house  to  dinner  in  the  subway  when 
we  had  a perfectly  good  motor  car!” 

That  was  five  years  ago. 

The  awakening  of  Helena  Ritchie  was  a 
deep,  snoreless  sleep  compared  to  yours. 

It’s  a cinch  to  put  a dream-car  at  the 
disposal  of  your  friends. 

Well,  anyhow! 

The  time  arrived  when  you  could  not 
exactly  afford  but  you  could  at  least  buy, 
a car. 

From  the  moment  you  are  bitten  by  the 
great  Klaxon-horned  Gasolene  Bug  the 
motor  car  takes  precedence  of  everything 
else — home  ties,  duty,  the  hope  of  a future 
life,  all  are  forgotten  for  the  time  being. 

Your  library  table  is  littered  with  speci- 
fications, booklets,  and  photos  of  every 
kind  of  car;  so  is  your  desk.  Your  over- 
coat pockets  bulge  with  them.  You  spend 


Auto  Fois—Auto  Moeurs  51 


hours  which  ought  to  be  spent  at  your 
desk,  standing  around  on  the  glassy  floors 
of  the  motor  harems  amongst  the  potted 
palms  listening  to  the  he  sirens  softly 
honking  of  their  wares. 

You  even  come  sneaking  back  at  night, 
when  the  shops  are  closed,  and  gaze  hyp- 
notized through  the  Pittsburgh  panes  at 
the  car  of  your  dreams;  then  back  again 
after  breakfast  with  the  fanatical  enthu- 
siasm of  the  Wagnerite  at  Bayreuth. 

While  Polly  is  trying  the  seats  of  the 
smart  town  car  up  near  the  window,  one 
of  the  Benzine  Brummels  is  telling  you 
something  beginning  with,  “I  guess  you’ve 
heard  this  one.  Stop  me  if  you  have — 

This  is  done  to  rest  your  brain  from 
the  exertion  of  trying  to  understand  why 
the  tail-light  is  not  attached  to  the  radi- 
ator fan. 

Otherwise  these  cataracts  of  “differen- 
tials,” “multiple  disk,”  and  “cone-clutches,” 
“timing-gears”  and  “splash  systems,”  would 
rock  your  mentality  and  perhaps  make  it 
turn  turtle  and  sink  at  the  dock. 

They  speak  kindly  of  other  cars,  and 


52  I Should  Say  So  ! 


tell  you  in  what  essentials  they  are  lacking, 
not  knocking,  mind  you — or  only  a little 
in.  one  cylinder. 

They  pass  debonairly  over  the  stupid 
and  minor  considerations  of  construction 
and  leap,  as  it  were,  with  a glad  cry  of 
home-coming  to  the  important  points  like 
the  cigar-lighters  and  the  initials  on  the 
door  panels.  There  is  where  they  are  on 
safe  ground  and  can  become  eloquent. 

They  show  you  scrap-books  full  of  tes- 
timonial letters  from  regular  business  men 
— regular  fellers  who  sit  at  desks  and  have 
telephones  and  paper-weights  and  office- 
boys  and  things — letters  written  on  bona- 
fide  typewriters,  and  they  have  “PXG” 
down  in  the  corners  just  like  real  letters. 

These  men  write  and  tell  them  how 
crazy  they  are  about  their  new  cars^ — how 
they  would  rather  be  wrecked  in  one  of 
their  cars  than  ride  safely  in  any  other 
make.  You  can’t  help  being  impressed. 

You  put  off  telling  them  that  you  are 
going  to  buy  a second-hand  car  as  long 
as  you  can,  and  when  you  tell  them  what 
a piker  you  are,  you  are  awfully  surprised 


“ BLINKENSOP  IS  SELLING  THIS  BECAUSE 
HE  WANTS  A MORE  POWERFUL  CAR” 


A uto  Fois—Auto  Moeurs  55 


they  don’t  throw  you  bodily  through  the 
plate-glass  windows. 

No,  it  is  really  so — they  still  talk  to 
you  as  if  you  were  an  out-and-out  white 
citizen.  These  gentlemanly  salesmen  even 
gloss  over  your  bad  break  to  the  extent 
of  being  willing  to  actually  sell  you  a 
second-hand  car  themselves.  They  speak 
of  them  as  “rebuilt”  cars.  They  are  re- 
built in  the  same  degree  that  your  blue 
serge  suit  is  rebuilt  when  you  send  it 
around  to  the  tailors  to  be  sponged  and 
pressed.  (Which,  by  the  way,  means 
pressed.)  “Rebuilt  cars”  are  covered  by 
the  same  guarantee  as  their  new  cars. 
Which  guarantee  is  worth  fully  eight  cents 
in  Confederate  money. 

They  show  you  and  Polly  the  “rebuilt” 
car.  A distinct  bargain.  Polly  had  it  on 
the  tip  of  her  tongue  to  say,  “Why  did  she 
leave  her  last  place?”  when  Brummel  an- 
ticipated her  by  volunteering,  “Blinkensop 
is  selling  this  because  he  wants  a more 
powerful  car.” 

“I  thought  you  said  this  was  a powerful 
car!”  you  ventured,  a shade  uneasily. 


56  I Should  Say  So  / 


“Powerful!  Ail  the  power  youll  ever 
want,  my  boy!  We’ll  take  him  up  Fort 
George  Hill,  eh,  Bud?”  This  to  the  dem- 
onstrator, who  shifts  on  to  his  other  foot 
and  smiles,  “Nothing  to  it!” 

You  feel  rebuked. 

You  and  Polly  are  given  a demonstra- 
tion. 

The  psychology  of  the  trade  starts  psych- 
ing at  the  moment  you  take  your  seat  in 
the  car.  The  instant  the  wheels  turn  you 
are  a goner! 

- You  are  now  the  best  salesman  they  have! 
You  sell  yourself  the  car!  You  root  for 
that  car  as  if  it  were  something  you  had 
invented  yourself.  You  are  only  too  will- 
ing to  be  convinced  of  its  perfections— only 
too  anxious  to  believe  all  those  Indians  tell 
you  in  their  salaried  enthusiasm. 

An  awful  clattering  underneath  your 
feet,  that  in  later  years  of  experience  would 
clearly  indicate  frazzled  bearings,  you  are 
now  eager  to  have  explained  away  as  noth- 
ing but  the  sweet  purr  of  perfect  mech- 
anism. 

You  sit  on  the  edge  of  the  seat,  nerves 


Auto  Fois—Auto  Moeurs  59 


taut,  inwardly  challenging  these  men  to 
say  anything  nasty  about  their  own  goods! 
Their  own?  Yours!  Nothing  short  of 
spontaneous  combustion  or  the  complete 
destruction  of  all  the  roads  in  the  United 
States  can  stop  you  from  buying  that  car! 

You  clutch  the  leather  arm-rests  with 
the  fierce  joy  of  ownership,  and  cry,  “Gee, 
some  boat!^’ 

“We  could  a-done  that  hill  just  as  easy 
on  high!”  grins  the  wicked  demonstrator 
as  he  looks  around  for  your  approval. 

“When  can  I have  it?”  you  hiss,  hardly 
recognizing  your  own  voice. 

“By  the  way,”  says  the  salesman,  doubt- 
fully,  to  the  wicked  demonstrator,  “this 
car  isn’t  sold,  is  it?” 

“Oh,  my  God!” 

“Oh,  no,  it’s  all  right— I was  thinking 
of  that  1911  runabout  of  Johnson’s — no, 

it’s  all  right.” 

“Oh!” 

You  nearly  swallowed  your  Adam’s 

apple. 

“It  will  take  about  two  weeks  to  paint 
it,”  says  the  cunning  salesman.  “You  can 
have  it  any  old  color  you  like.” 


60  I Should  Say  So  / 


You  and  Polly  would  like  dark  blue. 

“In  that  case  Fm  afraid  it  would  take 
from  four  to  five  weeks,  as  they  have  to 
scrape  it  down  to  the  bone!” 

“Gosh,  I don’t  want  to  wait  all  that 
time!”  you  groan. 

He  knew  you  wouldn’t. 

“Well,  then,  why  not  have  it  crimson?” 

“Why,  it’s  crimson  now,”  you  say,  glanc- 
ing quickly  over  the  side. 

“Yes,  something  on  that  shade — it  would 
be  stunning!” 

“Yes,  I guess  that  would  be  bully — 
wouldn’t  it,  Polly?” 

The  curtain  is  lowered  to  indicate  the 
lapse  of  two  weeks. 

The  car  is  at  your  door  with  the 
chauffeur. 

The  same  salesman  that  stung  you  with 
the  car  stung  you  also  with  the  chauffeur. 
The  lemon  and  the  lemonade. 

The  next  step  is  to  get  a couple  of  inno- 
cent friends  to  go  with  you  to  drive.  In 
certain  ways  owning  your  first  car  is  like 
being  in  love.  You  want  everybody  to 
meet  the  girl. 


“ I DON’T  KNOW  WHAT  IT  IS 
BUT  DO  IT” 


A uto  Fois—Auto  Aloeurs  63 


You  and  Polly  and  the  two  innocent 
friends  start  gaily  up  Broadway  in  the 
car.  You  have  decided  to  go  to  Yonkers, 
a moderate  though  eccentric  ambition.  At 
about  One  Hundredth  Street  something 
happens.  You  donh  know  what.  Neither 
does  the  chauffeur.  But  the  beautiful 
crimson  chariot  refuses  to  proceed,  and 
punctuates  its  refusal  with  extraordinary 
noises. 

The  chauffeur  starts  it  again.  Hope  is 
renewed- — bang!  Stop  again.  Chauffeur 
gets  out  again  and  lifts  up  the  lid  of  the 
trunk  at  the  front  end  and  fumbles  around. 
Nothing.  Conversation  expires.  You 
laugh  hysterically  and  remark  that  some- 
thing must  be  the  matter.  Chauffeur  says 
it’s  all  of  that,  and  that  you  will  all  have 
to  get  out  and  let  him  get  the  car  home 
when  he  can.  That  get  it  home  he  will, 
he  never  having  been  towed  home  in  his 
professional  life! 

As  there  doesn’t  seem  to  be  anything  else 
to  do,  you  all  get  out  and  go  home  in  the 
subway.  The  friends  murmur  something 
about  enjoying  the  ride,  and  you  mutter 


64  I Should  Say  So  / 


something  about  having  to  try  it  again 
some  time. 

After  trying  in  vain  to  get  that  car  out 
of  town  or  even  past  One  Hundred  and 
Sixteenth  Street,  it  dawns  on  you  that  some 
one  has  unloaded  an  acid  fruit  on  you. 

The  chauffeur  (whose  salary  you  paid, 
by  the  way,  during  the  two  weeks  the  car 
was  being  painted,  as  otherwise  you  might 
not  be  able  to  hold  him  and  there  being 
only  one  chauffeur  in  the  city  at  the  time) 
suggests  you  letting  him  take  down  the 
engine.  You  say,  “I  don’t  know  what  it  is, 
but  do  it.”  So  he  takes  down  the  engine, 
whose  piston-rings,  had  you  but  known 
about  such  things,  were  draped  around  the 
pistons  with  the  same  mathematical  pre- 
cision  that  the  rope  rings  fall  around  the 
stake  in  the  game  of  ring-toss  on  ship- 
board. 

When  friend  chauffeur  had  finished  put- 
ting the  engine  together  again,  he  had 
enough  parts  left  over  to  make  a cheap 
vacuum  cleaner  and  a pair  of  Colonial 
andirons. 

You  finally  get  a real  car,  but  you  never 


A uto  Fois—Auto  Moeurs  65 


forgive  that  agreeable  young  salesman  who 
sold  you  the  first  one.  You  watch  for  him 
in  the  streets.  You  wouldn’t^  of  course, 
want  to  run  over  him.  At  least,  not  all 

over  him. 

It  seems  now,  since  you’ve  had  several 
cars,  that  you  can’t  remember  not  having 
one.  Polly  says  you  act  that  way.  In 
what  particular  way?  “Oh,”  says  Polly, 
“for  instance,  the  Hallecks  are  coming  to 
dinner  to-night,  and  you  hadn’t  thought 
to  send  our  car  for  them.” 

“Well,  I’ll  send  for  them  if  you  want 
me  to,  Polly.” 

“No,  I don’t  particularly  care.  I was 
just  thinking  the  way  you  and  I used  to 
talk  when  we  didn’t  have  a car.” 

“I  get  you,  Polly;  but  I thought  I 
wouldn’t  send  Peter  out  to-night,  as  we’ve 
been  using  him  pretty  steadily  these  last 
few  nights.” 

That’s  one  phase  of  the  thing. 

Then  if  you  send  your  car  around  for 
some  people  six  times  running,  and  for 
some  idiotic  reason  you  carelessly  forget 
to  send  for  them  the  seventh  time,  the 


66  I Should  Say  So  / 


frost  is  on  the  pumpkin,  Jessie  dear,  the 
next  time  you  see  them.  Which  shows 
you  the  truth  of  the  old  adage,  ‘'Never 
start  anything  you  can’t  continue  forever.” 


/ Should  Say  So  / 


CRE  AM  OR  LEMON 


I Should  Say  Sol 


Cream  or  Lemon  F 

You  don’t  look  the . part,  Paul,” 

sighed  Polly,  as  she  regarded  her 
husband  critically. 

‘‘What  part,  dear  lady?’’  He  paused  in 
the  act  of  removing  from  his  overcoat  a 
Milky  Way  of  white  flakes  off  his  buck- 
skin gloves.  He  waited  with  sarcastic, 
elevated  eyebrows. 

“Why,  a more  or  less  celebrated  poet, 
dear.  Your  hair  isn’t  Busterbrownish  and 
you  haven’t  any  Colonel  Harvey  spectacles, 
and— well,  you  look  quite  clean!” 

“Well,  I really  haven’t  time  to  grow  the 
hair  of  get  the  Colonel  Harvey’s;  but  if 
it  will  do  any  good,  I can  scrabble  around 
in  the  fireplace  and  roll  under  the  kitchen 
sink  for  a few  minutes — ” He  made  a 
movement  as  if  to  carry  out  his  suggestion. 
“Paul!” — Polly  grabbed  him  by  the  arm 


70  I Should  Say  So  ! 


— “I  was  only  joking — I love  you,  even  if 
you  are  clean-— I was  only  thinking  that 
as  the  Bostocks  are  giving  this  tea  to  meet 
you,  it  is  rather  a pity  you  haven’t  a poet 
make-up,  even  if  it  were  only  some  Le 
Gallienne  hair— yours  is  so  Lyendeckerish 
— you  might  even  be  an  ad  for  a two-for-a- 
quarter  collar.  Your  forehead  doesn’t  bulge 
anywhere  peculiarly— who  will  believe  that 
you  are  Paul  Pantoum  Punctual  with  that 
five  per  cent,  grade  forehead?” 

“You  really  can’t  tell  nowadays  from  a 
man’s  appearance  what  his  job  is— Con- 
gressmen look  like  Taxi  Drivers,  Head 
Waiters  look  like  Eminent  Jurists,  Artists 
look  like  Stockbrokers,  and  so  on.  Still, 
if  you  say  so,  I can  take  a notary  public 
with  me  and  have  him  witness  my  sig- 
nature on  ‘Hyacinth  and  Fluyler’s.’  I 
could  pass  ’em  around — ” 

“By  the  way,”  said  Polly,  darting  over 
to  a large  bowl  on  the  table  and  scratching 
around  in  it  amongst  the  cards,  “what  was 
their  number?— Oh,  yes — 16  Eiast— Come 
on!  It’s  just  time  to  get  there  late.  What 
on  earth  are  you  doing,  Paul?— undress- 
ing?” 


Cream  or  Lem  on  ^ 11 


“No/’  panted  Paul,  as  he  unbuttoned 
his  overcoat,  then  his  morning  coat  and 
finally  his  waistcoat;  “just  taking  good — ■ 
breath  before — uh — I nail  myself  up.  Gee, 
this  vest  has  shrunk!” 

“Hal  You’re  getting- — ” 

“I’m  not,  either.  Remember,  this  is  the 
last  tea  you  get  me  to — ^the  finish— I’m 
through  teathing— ” 

Paul  and  Polly  go  up  in  the  elevator 
at  the  “Arch-Ducal  Archways”  with  two 
frock  coats  and  a morning  coat,  who  all 
say  in  quick  succession  with  a mixture  of 
defiance  and  reticence:  “Mrs.  Bostock!” 

Then  they  eye  each  other  with  expres- 
sions that  say,  “Mrs.  Bostock,  indeed!  Are 
you  the  sort  she  asks  to  her  teas?  I can’t 
say  offhand  what  it  is  about  you  that  dis- 
pleases me,  but  I am  fully  persuaded  that 
I shouldn’t  care  to  know  you,  really!” 

One  of  the  frock  coats  was  an  English- 
man, and  his  eager  little  heart  was  near 
bursting  with  bromidiums. 

To  him,  the  elevator  seemed  to  crawl. 

Mrs.  Bostock  had  hired  a train  an- 
nouncer out  of  a job  to  bawl  out  the  names 


12  I Should  Say  So! 


of  her  guests,  many  of  whom  had  never 
heard  their  names  called  out  so  stentori- 
ousiy  before  except  by  their  better  halves 
in  a mood. 

The  hostess  evidently  missed  hearing 
Captain  Swash’s  name  called,  because 
when  she  greeted  him  she  foozled  the 
approach.  This  gave  him  his  first  chance 
to  unload.  “You  don’t  recognize  me  in 
this,  Imeantosay,  dim  religious  light!” 
“Oh,  Captain  Swash — ” leaning  toward 
him  like  a coy  manatee — “You  mean  dim 
irreligious  light!”  she  whispered  naughtily 
and  wittily. 

Paul  hung  about  the  entrance  into  the 
main  cage  a moment  waiting  for  Polly. 
He  decided  that  she  had  probably  caught 
her  hair  on  something,  so  he  thought  he 
would  make  a dash  for  it. 

He  breathed  his  name  to  the  human 
howitzer  to  be  exploded  over  the  heads 
of  the  innocent  bystanders,  and  entered. 

Mrs.  Bostock  leapt  at  him  as  a hungry 
lady  manatee  leaps  at  a mackerel. 

“Oh,  here’s  my  lion!  Come  over  here. 
I want  you  to  meet — Where  is  that  girl? 
— Oh,  here  she  is!” 


YOU  MEAN  DIM  IRRELIGIOUS  LIGHT!” 

SHE  WHISPERED  NAUGHTILY  AND  WITTILY 


Cream  or  Lemon  f 75 


The  “girl”  was  a slip  of  forty — in  spin- 

ach-green  corduroy  and  scarab  tippetj  and 
a large  swaying  meteoric  mass  of  tarnished 
zinc  and  colored  glass  which  she  wore  sus- 
pended on  what  ought  to  have  been  her 
chest.  It  made  Paul  think  of  the  bumpers 
tugboats  wear  to  protect  their  wishbones 
from  docks  and  things.  She  had  backed 
a curly-haired  infant  up  against  a radiator 
and  was  talking  him  to  a frazzle,  while 
he  smiled  and  smiled,  although  scorching. 
The  infant  was  new  to  teas— he  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  a magazine.  Paul  heard 
later  that  the  poor  youngster  was  abso- 
lutely without  experience,  and  that  they 
used  him  to  try  manuscripts  and  illustra- 
tions on,  to  decide  about  accepting  or  re- 
jecting them. 

“Eloise,  dear,  I want  you  to  meet  this 
distinguished  person,  Mr.  Paul  Pantoum 
Punctual,  the  Poet — Miss  McCann,  of 
Marblehead.” 

“Tell  him  Pm  an  Interviewest,  Kathar- 
ine,” Miss  McCann  pouted. 

“Yes,  indeed,  and  the  cleverest  one  in 
New  York,” 


76  I Should  Say  So! 


‘‘Thanks,  dear.”  Miss  McCann  seemed 
to  imply  in  her  tone  that  Mrs.  Bostock 
was  rather  stingy  with  her  praise. 

“Fm  sure  you  two  will  have  lots  in 
common — ” Mrs.  Bostock  waddled  away 
genially. 

The  magazine  infant  who  was  the  Least 
Common  Advisor  to  his  firm,  with  a “too 
good  to  be  true”  look  on  his  face,  escaped 
from  his  radiator  on  high  speed,  nearly 
wrecking  a marble  bust  of  a forward  young 
flapper  who  invited  all  comers  to  sample 
a couple  of  marble  cherries  she  held  be- 
tween her  teeth.  • 

Miss  McCann,  coming  from  the  hasty- 
pudding  zone,  said  “copperation,”  “Otter- 
wobile,”  “Fahther,”  and  “tunnips.”  She 
kept  looking  up  at  Paul  through  her  eye- 
brows like  one  of  Landseer’s  stag  hounds. 
It  was  an  expression  she  had  practiced. 
It  was  intended  to  loreleize  any  man.  Paul 
didn’t  get  the  loreleization  at  all. 

It  left  him  with  his  normal  number  of 
vibrations. 

“Now,  try  another — that  was  a flivver!” 
said  Paul  rudely. 


I’M  SURE  YOU  TWO  WILL 
HAVE  LOTS  IN  COMMON—” 


Cream  or  Lemon?  19 


“What  do  you  mean?^’  asked  Miss  Mc- 
Cann, knowing  exactly  what  he  meant 

“That  attempt  at  a devastating  glance 
you  just  gave  me.  If  you  insist  on  the 
T’s  being  dotted  and  the  Fs  crossed.’’ 

“Well,  of  all  the— Aren’t  you  a terrible 
person!”  shivered  the  lady  of  the  zinc 
bumper.  “I  don’t  believe  any  woman 
would  be  safe  near  you— you— you  Cave 
Man!” 

“Reassure  yourself,  madam— any  woman 
who  wears  a ring  like  a Christmas  cracker 
on  her  index  finger  is  as  safe  with  me 
as- — ” 

“O!  I think  I’ll  pass  you  on  to  some 
one  else— you’re  not  anywhere  near  civil- 
ized—really— Miss  Babistair,  I want  to 
inflict  Mr.  Punctual  on  you!” 

Miss  Babistair  dimpled  and  sidled  up  to 
Paul.  “Hajaduh?” 

Paul  wondered  if  she  was  one  of  the 
women  one  offers  to  shake  hands  with  or 
the  other  sort.  By  the  time  he  had  de- 
cided it  was  too  late. 

“I  am  fairly  well,  and  thank  you  for 
asking.” 


80  I Should  Say  So  ! 


“Phu,  phu-— you’re  funny.  I mest  have 
seen  your  work  somewhere — in  the  maga- 
zines I fancy — You  make  pictures  or 
something— -I’ve  been  abroad  so  mech  of 
my  life  I haven’t  kept  up  with  you  over 
heah.” 

^^You’re  English?” 

“N  o — Amerrrican.” 

‘^Over  here  incog?” 

^Whatchoo  mean?” 

“Oh,  nothing.” 

“Tell  me,  you  are  an  illustrator,  are 
you  not?” 

“No;  worse  than  that.  A Poet.” 

“Fancy!  How  nice!  Oh,  have  you 
met  Mr.  Ponctshl?”  This  to  a foreign- 
looking  flapper  who  was  passing  in  a 
Puma-like  manner.  Foreign  Flapper 
pauses  and  shakes  hands  gummily  with 
Paul.  Miss  Babistair  sneaks. 

“Miss  Babistair  didn’t  mention  your 
name-er— ” 

“No.  She  doesn’t  know  me.  Perhaps 
that  is  why.  My  name  is  Miss  Pureleaf.” 

“Chicago?” 

“Sh!  Yes.  I live  in  Paris.  Mrs.  Bos- 
tock  has  the  only  salon  in  New  York.” 


OLIVER  HERFORD  JOINS  THEM, 

STIRRING  HIS  CUP  OF  TEA  WITH  A LADY- FINGER 


Cream  or  L,emon  / 83 


‘‘So  several  people  have  told  me.  From 
the  looks  of  that  table  of  decanters  and 
bottles  one  might  say  saloon.  Have  you 

had  punch?’’ 

“Rather — several!  Oliver  Herford 

passed  the  word  around  that  it’s  full  of 
absinthe — that  keeps  the  New  Rochelle 
and  Flushing  bunch  away  from  it.” 

“Oliver  Herford!  the  vice-president  of 
the  Flerford  Manufacturing  Company?” 
Paul  is  trying  to  be  amusing. 

“No,  stupid!  Oliver  Herford,  the  wit, 
artist  and  poet.” 

“Oh,  Mr.  Ford,  come  over  here.”  She 
grabbed  Jim  Ford,  the  Sardonic,  by  the 
sleeve  and  introduced  Paul  to  him. 
“Here’s  a man  who  doesn’t  know  who 
Oliver  Herford  is.” 

“He’s  stringing  you.  Everybody  knows 
the  famous  Kittenologist — the  originator 
of  the  proverb,  ‘The  more  haste  the  less 
speed.’  Why — ” 

“I  confess,”  laughed  Paul.  “I  was  jes’ 
foolin’.  All  the  stories  they  don’t  credit 
to  Dan’l  Webster  and  Abe  Line — By  the 
way,  Mr.  Ford,  Miss  Pureleaf  tells  me 


84  1 Should  Say  So  ! 


that  Mrs.  Bostock  has  the  one  real  salon 
in  town.” 

“Oh,  yes,”  whispers  Ford.  “Every 
woman  who  can  corral  three  stockbrokers, 
an  advertising  man  and  a Fifty-seventh 
Street  dressmaker  has  the  one  salon.” 

A dark  gent  just  then  made  his  way  to 
the  piano. 

“Oh,  gosh!  there  goes  that  wedge-faced 
wap  to  the  box  again!”  hoarsely  whispers 
a stout  old  lady  in  a bodice  all  covered 
with  sequins  and  glass  beads. 

“Who  in  heaven’s  name  is  that?”  Paul 
hisses  to  Jim  Ford. 

“That  old  woman  gotten  up  like  the 
electric  sign  for  Spriggle’s  Nearmint  Gum? 
That  is  Mrs.  Hugglesby,  of  Omaha,  grand- 
parents members  of  the  Brook  Farm  gang 
in  New  England,  author  of  ^The  Care  and 
Preservation  of  Our  Mother  Tongue.’ 
FIullo,  Oliver!”  Oliver  Herford  joins 
them,  stirring  his  cup  of  tea  with  a lady- 
finger. 

Oliver  remarks  in  his  diffident  manner, 
“Isn’t  that  thing  tiresome  the  fellow’s 
singing — that  Caruso  piece,  ‘Down  in 
Mobile.’  ” 


Cream  or  Lemon  ? 85 


Miss  Pureleaf  says,  “You  mean  ‘Donne 
e Mobile,’  Mr.  Herford.” 

“Oh,  perhaps  that  was  what  I meant.” 

“Oh,  Mr.  Punctual,  come  over  here.” 
— His  hostess’  voice. 

Paul  feels  as  helpless  as  an  infant  cater- 
pillar in  a nest  of  hungry  ants.  He  seemed 
to  have  left  his  will-power  with  his  hat 
and  coat  as  he  followed  her  through  the 
crowd  to  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

“I  want  you  to  meet- — ” Mrs.  Bostock 
smiled  helplessly — “Now  I know  your 
name  as  well  as  I — Your  face  is  as  familiar 
as — ” 

“Mrs.  Punctual,”  said  Polly  with  ma- 
licious animal  magnanimity. 

“Mrs.  Pune—- Mrs.  Pune — Oh! — Oh! — 
Am  I getting  fatuous  as  well  as  fat — 
introducing  you  to  your  own — Oh!  Oh!” 
She  fled. 

Polly  smiled  up  at  Paul.  “How  do  you 
do?” 

“Pm  pleased  to  meet  you.  We  ought 
to  have  a lot  in  common.” 

“Yes,”  said  Polly,  serenely,  “with  a 
house  on  it— but  we  haven’t — ” 


86  I Should  Say  So  / 


“So  youVe  already  succumbed  to  the 
Repartee  Fever!  Let’s  beat  it — ” 

On  the  way  home  Polly  pretended  not 
to  hear  Paul  as  he  muttered  strange,  un- 
connected sentences  to  himself.  It  sounded 
something  like  this: 

“Mrs.  Bostock  has  the  only  real  salon 
in  town.” 

“Yes,  we  live  on  the  dreadful  West  Side, 
but  it  doesn’t  matter  where  one  lives  in 
New  York  these  days.” 

“Weil,  turkey  trotting  is  certainly  health- 
ier exercise  than  bridge.” 

“My  husband  doesn’t  approve  of  my 
taking  lessons  in  these  new  dances  from 
a professional.” 

“We  live  in  Nutley  for  the  children’s 
sake.” 

“Life  is  made  so  much  easier  for  one 
living  abroad.” 

“New  York’s  sky-line  is  really  beauti- 
ful.” 

“I  don’t  believe  in  facial  massage.  It 
loosens  the  flesh.” 

“We  let  our  chauffeur  wear  what  he 
pleases-— he  is  an  excellent  machinist — he 
can  fix  anything  that  goes  wrong.” 


Cream  or  Lemon  ? 87 


“Don’t  attempt  to  take  the  spot  out  your- 
self—send  it  right  to  the  cleaner’S'= — they 
don’t  have  to  dip  the  whole  thing  these 

days.” 

“Did  you  ever  see  the  streets  in  such  a 
condition!  It’s  just  graft — yes^  Tammany.” 

“Polly,  don’t  ask  me  to  go  to  another 

tea  with  you.” 

“Really,  Paul,  I thought  you  seemed  to 
be  having  the  time  of  your  life  with  that 
swarthy  young  thing  in  the  corner.” 

“Pooh!  I had  to  be  civil  to  the  crea- 
ture.” 

“You  will  notice,  Paul,  that  I am  not 
finding  fault  with  you  for  leaving  me  to 
come  in  by  myself.  I might  have  meant 
something  as  Mrs.  Paul  Pantoum  Punc^ 
tual,  but  ‘Mrs.  Punctual’  left  them  cold.” 

“Sorry,  but  I thought  you  were  never 
coming.” 

“At  any  rate,”  continued  Paul,  “this  is 
positively  my  Adelinapatti  at  any  tea.  I 
have  spoken!” 

This  was  as  they  were  entering  their 
own  apartment. 

“What’s  this?”  said  Polly,  picking  up 
an  envelope  from  the  hall  table. 


88  I Should  Say  So  ! 


clever  way  to  find  out  would  be  to 
open  it.”  Paul  was  rather  husbandish. 

“Mrs.  C.  Lonn  at  home  March  loth 
from  four  to  seven,”  read  Polly. 

She  started  to  tear  the  card  up. 

Paul  laid  a detaining  hand  on  hers. 

“Hold  on!  You  may  want  to  remember 
the  address.” 


1 Should  Say  So  ! 


UNTERESTING  PEOPLE 


1 


I Should  Say  So  I 


Untet-esting  People 

I.  A great  man  who  has  a job  he  bkes. 

II,  A wonderful  example  of  coolheadedness , 
III,  A baby  who  looks  like  any  baby  ^ but  isn't, 

MATTHEW  J.  PILLWEATHER 

Little  do  we  all  realize  the  history 
of  some  of  the  commonest  house- 
^ hold  articles— the  romance  of  the 
humble  parlor  match^  for  instance.  Who 
amongst  us  all  has  not  at  some  time  in 
his  or  her  life  had  occasion  to  use  that 
little  wooden  beacon? 

Is  there  a child  in  these  United  States 
who  has  not  played  with  them  when 
Mother’s  back  was  turned? 

Is  there  anything  that  enters  more  into 
our  daily  life  than  the  simple  match?  In 
the  parlor,  the  kitchen,  the  camp,  the 
smoking  car,  the  subway,  the  theater,  the 


92  I Should  Say  So! 


Street,  even  the  avenues — everywhere  un- 
der the  sun  you  will  find  the  little  fibrous 
torch  in  use! 

Well,  then.  You’ll  all  agree  to  that. 
Now  when  the  parlor  match  was  first  in- 
vented suppose  the  head  had  been  put  on 
the  wrong  end!  Can  you  not  imagine  the 
cries  of  baffled  rage  floating  up  into  the 
empyrean  baby  blue  when  millions  of 
match  users  tried  in  vain  to  strike  their 
matches  1 

This  didn’t  happen.  I only  say  sup- 
pose 1 

If  this  stupendous  blunder  had  occurred, 
there  is  one  man  in  the  country  who  would 
have  been  able  to'  rectify  it.  He  would 
have  seen  immediately  what  the  trouble 
was,  and  with  the  simplicity  of  genius 
would  have  recalled  all  the  matches  that 
had  been  put  on  the  market,  scraped  the 
heads  off  and  put  them  on  the  proper  ends. 
That  man  is. Matthew  J.  Pillweather,  of 
White  River  Junction,  Vermont — or  N. 
H.  He  is  alive  to-day  at  the  age  of  eighty- 
two,  and  is  still  occupying  the  same  posi- 
tion of  trust  he  has  filled  for  over  sixty- 


MATTHEW  J.  PILLWEATHER 
Who  for  sixty-three  years  has  filled  the  respon- 
sible position  of  assistant  postal-card  reader  in 
the  postoffice  of  his  native  town—also  a genius. 


Unteresting  People  95 


three  years,  as  assistant  postahcard  reader 
in  the  post-office  of  his  native  town. 

Which  only  goes  to  show  something  or 

other. 

AUGUSTUS  G.  PEST 

One  day,  while  on  a tour  of  inspection 
of  the  subway  in  company  with  no  less 
person  that  President  Higginbotham  him- 
self, the  writer  happened  to  notice  a ticket- 
seller  in  one  of  the  booths. 

‘Wes,”  smiled  President  Higginbotham ; 
“that  is  a case  in  which  I take  a great 
deal  of  pride!  It  will  pay  you  to  watch 
him  a moment!” 

I stepped  closer  to  the  booth  and 
watched  the  man.  I could  hardly  credit 
my  eyesight.  Inside  of  .twelve  minutes 
there  must  have  been  three  people  who 
bought  tickets  at  that  window,  and  not 
a trace  of  nervousness  or  a single  falter- 
ing movement  on  the  part  of  the  ticket- 
seller! 

The  tickets  were  pulled  off  the  strips, 
passed  through  the  window,  the  money 
taken  in  and  in  one  instance  change  for 


96  I Should  Say  So  f 


a dime  made — and  not  one  mistake.  I 
reeled  with  excitement.  Higginbotham 
helped  me  to  a seat  on  a bench.  And 
fanning  me  with*  a copy  of  The  American 
Magazine^  which,  by  the  way,  he  says  is 
extremely  useful,  he  told  me  the  story  of 
the  ticket-seller.  The  following  remark- 
able story  speaks  for  itself: 

Augustus  G.  Pest  was  born  in  New  York 
City,  in  1850. 

STARK  N.  AKED 

In  Slag  Heap  Notch,  Pennsylvania, 
there  lives  what  most  people  would  pass 
by  as  an  ordinary  person.  And  as  usual, 
most  people  would  be  dead  wrong. 

To  the  casual  observer  Stark  N.  Aked 
is  no  dififerent  from  millions  of  other 
Americans.  There  doesn’t  seem  to  be  any 
outward  sign  to  indicate  that  he  is  unique 
or  remarkable.  But  he  is.  Of  all  our 
hundred  million  inhabitants  he  is  the  most 
interesting  and  wonderful.  Bar  none. 

In  the  first  place,  Dr.  Lincoln  Litmus, 
the  family  physician,  stated  professionally, 


AUGUSTUS  G.  PEST 

An  extraordinary  ticket-seller  in  the  New  York 
subway.  He  can  sell  three  tickets  in  twelve 
minutes  without  making  a mistake. 


{Interesting  People  99 


before  wet-nurses,  that  it  was  the  most 
perfectly  formed  child  he  had  ever  seen! 
But  the  really  unanswerable  evidence  of 
Stark’s  claim  to  being  the  most  absolutely 
peerless  person  in  all  the  world  is  the 
voluntary  admission  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Aked. 


Tieprinted  through  the  couvtesy  of  the '' Associated  Sunday  Magazines”  * "V/E  CAN’T  AFFORD  PRESENTS  THIS  YEAR” 

THE  PICTURE  THAT  CAUSED  ADD  THE  TROUBLE 


Unteresting  People  103 


The  'Trihulations  of  an  Illustrator 

Told  in  Pictures,  in  a Letter  and  a Reply 

THE  LETTER 

Mr,  James  Montgomery  Flagg. 

Dear  Sir: — We  have  had  several  discus- 
sions in  our  family  in  regard  to  your  pen- 
and-ink  drawings  in  the  “Associated  Sun- 
day Magazine”  of  December  22,  1912, 
entitled  “We  Can’t  Afford  Presents  This 
Year.”  If  not  too  much  trouble,  I will 
deem  it  favor  if  you  will  kindly  forward 
your  meaning.  Thanking  you  in  advance, 
I am 

Most  respectfully  yours, 

December  30,  1912. 

THE  REPLY 

33  West  Sixty- Seventh  St. , 
New  York,  Jan.  17,  1913. 
My  Lear  Mrs.-—— 

Your  kind  inquiry  concerning  the  mean- 
ing of  my  cartoon  in  the  Christmas  num- 


104  I Should  Say  So  ! 


ber  of  the  “Associated  Sunday  Magazines” 
is  received,  and  I can  readily  understand 
your  perplexity.  Evidently  you  did  not  see 
the  series  of  pictures,  of  which  this  is  but 
a part.  Also,  I regret  to  say,  the  editors 
of  the  magazine  failed  to  carry  out  my 
wishes:  I told  them  to  print  the  true  title 
of  the  series,  “Christmas  in  Many  Lands,” 
on  the  tablecloth,  to  the  left  of  the  cham- 
pagne bottle,  in  the  picture.  This  they  did 
not  do. 

The  first  cartoon  of  this  series,  it  may 
interest  you  to  know,  was  my  first  pub- 
lished drawing.  It  appeared  in  the  “Ap- 
peal to  Reason  Magazine,”  in  July,  1880. 
This  picture  showed  “Christmas  on  the 
Deep,”  and  while  the  title  of  the  series 
may  not  strictly  cover  nautical  scenes,  yet 
I felt  that  I was  justified  in  using  the  title 
“Christmas  on  the  Deep,”  because  the  ship 
I drew  was  a very  rapid  one,  and,  barring 
bubonic  plague  or  other  accidents  to  the 
machinery,  was  sure  to  be  in  port  by  the 
time  of  publication. 

That  picture  showed  the  Captain  made 
up  as  Santa  Claus,  tossing  filberts  over  the 


Unteresting  People  105 


rail  for  the  Cabin  Boys  to  dive  for,  teach- 
ing carols  to  the  Second  Cabin  Stewards, 
hearing  the  Able  Seamen  say  their  prayers, 
and  kissing  them  good  night.  The  crew 
had  hung  up  their  stockings  on  the  yard- 
arms, and  the  rigging  and  funnels  were  fes- 
tooned with  holly  and  mistletoe.  The  cook 
was  trying  to  catch  the  Second  Officer 
under  the  mistletoe— ^-with  a potato-masher. 
Indeed,  the  whole  scene  reflected  the  sim- 
ple gaities  of  Jack  at  Sea  in  the  Yuletide 
season. 

It  may  surprise  you  to  know  that  many 
readers  contended  that  this  picture  did 
not  really  represent  “Christmas  in  Many 
Lands,”  because,  although  the  sailors  were 
of  many  nationalities,  I had  left  out  the 
Javanese.  But  that  was  intentional.  I was 
coming  to  the  Javanese  later. 

My  Javanese  cartoon  was  No.  2 in  the 
“Christmas  in  Many  Lands”  series.  It 
appeared  in  “Godey’s  Lady’s  Book”  in 
1863.  It  was  called  “Christmas  in  Many 
Lands,”  again  showing  the  wealth  of  ideas 
possessed  by  an  artist  who  was  fortunate 
enough  to  count  many  Art  Editors  among 
his  personal  frien'ds. 


106  I Should  Say  So! 


The  drawing  depicted  that  famous  and 
terrible  St.  Valentine’s  Day  when  the 
Moke  of  Mocha,  accompanied  on  the  bas- 
soon by  • that  doughty  warrior,  Young 
Hyson,  committed  the  Sack  of  Java.  This 
picture  clearly  showed  the  unsettled  con- 
dition of  affairs  in  Java  before  the  intro- 
duction of  the  egg. 

In  the  foreground  Young  Hyson  is  seen 
knocking  King  Caffeine  IV.  of  Java  on  the 
bean,  thereby  giving  him  grounds  for  com- 
plaint. 

Some  people  wrote  in  to  me  about  this 
picture.  They  did  not  understand  why  it 
should  be  entitled  “Christmas  in  Many 
Lands,”  as  the  Sack  of  Java  was  known  to 
have  occurred  on  St.  Valentine’s  Day.  But, 
as  you  will  have  already  guessed,  this  was 
done  to  make  it  harder. 

No.  3 of  this  series  was  published  in 
Park  & Tilford’s  Catalogue,  in  1910.  It 
showed  “A  Quaker  Christmas”  in  all  its 
pristine  glory.  The  patriarchal  old  father 
of  the  Quaker  family  had  been  celebrating 
Guy  Fawkes  Day,  and  was  feeling  his  oats. 
This  brings  us  naturally  and  gracefully  to 


Unteresting  People  101 


the  remark  that  this  drawing  was  part  of 
a serial.  Now,  as  you  are  doubtless  aware, 
it  is  the  custom  among  the  Quakers,  and 
has  been  so  from  time  immemorial,  to  kill 
and  eat  each  other  on  Christmas  eve.  This 
rite  they  consider  to  be  a purely  personal 
and  family  matter,  and  nobody  else’s  busi- 
ness. Any  member  of  a Quaker  family  who 
is  not  et  one  year,  is  it  next  year. 

I pointed  a moral  in  this  picture  to  those 
who  may  be  tempted  to  use  oatmeal  to  ex- 
cess; for  oatmeal  is  a good  servant,  but  a 
terrible  master.  The  old  Quaker  father 
had  overindulged  in  oatmeal.  He  came 
reeling  home,  reeking  with  the  noxious 
fumes  of  that  cosmetic.  Not  knowing  what 
he  did,  he  mistook  an  innocent  seamstress 
for  a member  of  his  own  family.  She  was 
sewing  oats  on  Otis  Skinner.  While  she 
was  thus  engaged,  he  sidled  up  to  her  and 
slew  her.  In  my  picture  I show  the  old 
man  devouring  her  second  joint.  There  is 
a look  of  doubt  upon  the  fine  old,  simple 
face,  as  though  he  wondered  whether  all 
was  for  the  best. 

Now  we  come  to  the  last  cartoon — the 


108  1 Should  Say  Sol 


one  of  which  you  wrote  me.  This  picture 
shows  richly  dressed  people  sitting  in  an 
extravagant  restaurant,  lavishly  eating  an 
expensive  lunch,  and  drinking  champagne. 
The  caption  was:  “We  Can’t  Afford  Pres- 
ents This  Year.” 

Not  everyone  has  had  the  common  cour- 
tesy to  write  to  me  for  an  explanation  of 
this  thing.  Thousands  upon  thousands  have 
gone  on  in  the  routine  of  their  daily  life, 
with  the  problem  presented  by  this  car- 
toon gnawing  at  their  vitals,  yet  they  have 
been  too  inert  to  write  me. 

I thank  you.  And  yet  I find  myself 
pausing  on  the  threshold  of  this  disclosure. 
Madam,  how  shall  I unfold  this  ghastly 
story?  . . . 

The  girl  who  sitsAn  the  center,  facing 
you  so  calmly,  is,  I regret  to  say,  the  leader 
of  a notorious  band  of  Nihilists.  And  the 
waiter  without  a head — what  of  him?  To 
the  casual  observer  he  is  like  any  other 
waiter  without  a head.  Not  so,  however! 
He  is  really  Nutoff,  the  most  terrible  as- 
sassin, murderer,  cut-throat,  highbinder, 
bookbinder,  spellbinder,  and  Ploi  Polloi 
in  all  Vladivostok. 


Vnteresting  People  109 


The  girl  Nihilist  has  lured  the  man  and 
woman  with  whom  she  sits  at  table  to  this 
cafe!  And  who,  think  you,  is  them?  He 
is  the  young  Szarsparilla  of  Russia-^czar™ 
castically  speaking,  she  is  his  wife.  They 
have  left  their  son  and  daughter,  the  young 
Czardine  and  Czardonix,  and  come  to  this 
caviar  den,  where  the  worst  Vodkas  in 
Paris  assemble. 

But  as  I approach  the  awful  denouement 
my  nerve  fails  me!  How  can  I continue? 
How  can  I tell  you  of  that  awful  night: 
how  the  waves  rolled  in  over  the  foot- 
board; of  the  feverish  Northern  lights,  and 
the  sad  low  call  of  the  penguin  to  its  mate, 
the  penwiper;  the  awful  picture  of  her,  as 
she  lay  there,  half  in  and  half  out,  with  that 
look  upon  her  face,  as  the  sawdust  rose 
and  rose  until  it  touched  her  moist  red 
lips — it  is  seared  upon  the  tabloids  of  my 
memory.  That  was  the  night  my  hair 
turned  gray— the  night  when  the  raven 
dragged  its  ink-stained  wing  across  the  face 
of  the  taxi-driver  who  had  played  his  last 
set  of  tennis  in  the  dusty  courtyards  of  the 
Alhambra.  Peace  . . . Peace  . . . 


110  I Should  Say  So! 


It  was  morning.  . . . The  bald-headed 
Paregoric,  perched  on  his  eyrie  on  the 
blasted  tamarack,  looked  down  upon  them 
as  they  lay  there,  cold  and  still — hatless, 
shoeless  . . . footless! 

That,  then,  is  the  answer! 

In  closing,  I wish  to  tell  you  that  I shall 
hereafter  have  all  my  cartoons  in  connec- 
tion with  the  ^‘Christmas  in  Many  Lands” 
series  printed  by  the  Butterick  Company, 
on  pattern  paper.  Pattern  paper  is,  as  you 
know,  perforated;  this  will  enable  everyone 
to  see  through  the  pictures. 

Yours  very  truly, 

James  Montgomery  Flagg. 


/ Should  Say  So  / 


THEATERS 


I Should  Say  Sol 


Theaters 


DON’T  tell  me  you’ve  never  been  to 
the  theater!  Get  ou^u-t!  Honest? 
What  do  you  know  about  that?  Tell 
you  what  it’s  like?  Sure! 

If  you’ve  never  been  to  a show  it  doesn’t 
make  any  difference  which  one  you  pick 
out.  You’ll  enjoy  it,  no  matter  how  punk- 
escent  it  is. 

Which  is  true  of  almost  everything  you 
do  for  the  first  time — except  going  to  the 
dentist,  and  being  mistaken  for  the  con- 
ductor. You  don’t  enjoy  those  things  until 

the  second  time. 

Don’t  be  absurd?  Huh!  One  has  to  die 
quickly  in  order  not  to  be,  and  even  then 
one  may  be  funny. 

Collect  the  morning  papers  after  the  first 
night  of  some  play  and  read  the  criticisms 
carefully.  Don’t  balance  the  papers  against 


114  I Should  Say  So  / 


the  fern  dish  and  read  with  one  eye  and 
drink  your  coffee  with  the  other.  Wait  till 
after  breakfast,  and  go  to  it  with  what  they 
tell  you  is  your  mind. 

The  “Daily  Toast”  will  say  something 
like  this : 

“ ‘The  Moll-Buzzer’  leapt  into  instant 
popularity  last  night.  It  is  the  play  of  the 
season.  A1  and  Gus  Thomas  are  sore  this 
A.  M.  because  they  didn’t  write  it.  The  au- 
thor, up  to  last  night  entirely  unknown,  is 
to  be  congratulated  on  a masterly  work 
which  has  in  it  none  of  the  faults  of  the 
novice,  nay,  indeed,  combines  the  construc- 
tion of  Pinero,  the  wit  of  Shaw,  and  the 
dramatic  power  of  Ibsen,  with  the  popular 
note  of  Geo.  Cohan. 

“This  play  of  the  underworld  should 
draw  crowds  for  two  or  three  decades.  The 
situations  are  original  and  hair-raising  as 
well  as  being  true  to  life.  A representative 
audience  sat  breathless  on  the  edge  of  its 
seats — one  moment  agonized  with  dread  and 
suspense,  the  next  moment  rocking  and 
writhing  with  the  abandonment  of  convuls- 
ive mirth!  The  cast  was  extraordinarily 


DON’T  BALANCE  THE  PAPERS  AGAINST  THE  FERN  DISH 
AND  READ  WITH  ONE  EYE  AND  DRINK  YOUR 
COFFEE  WITH  THE  OTHER 


Theaters 


111 


fine,  including  that  sterling  actor,  Haddock 
Wart- — another  vindication  of  the  good  old 
stock  company  training! — who  gave  a rarely 
splendid  performance  in  a part  that  re- 
quired the  finished  art  of  just  such  an  in- 
telligent actor. 

‘‘He  was  a delight  to  the  eye  in  the  pic- 
turesque costume  of  a N.  Y.  detective,  and 
his  portrayal  of  that  sweet  old  gentleman 
was  delightful,  as  he  brought  out  every 
shading  of  the  character — the  benevolence, 
the  asceticism,  the  dreamy  gentleness,  and 
the  old-world  courtesy. 

“Here  at  last  is  a play  worth  seeing  over 
and  over  again!  Take  your  family;  take 
your  regiment ; take  your  ward  ! They  will 
thank  you  with  tears  of  joy!” 

“Well,”  you  sparkle,  “that  must  be  some 
play-— what?  Let’s  go!” 

Hold  on!  Read  the  “Morning  Marma- 
lade”! Here! 

“Another  flivver  added  to  the  season’s 
long  list  of  casualties!  Any  manager  who 
would  produce  such  a hodge-podge  of  stale 
banalities  as  ‘The  Moll-Buzzer’  deserves  to 
be  redrawn  from  an  early  tintype  and  pub- 


118  I Should  Say  So! 


lished!  The  underbred  pup  who  collected, 

pinched,  and  signed  his  name  to  this  shovel- 
ful of  chaos  deserves  to  be  sent  to  Flushing 
for  life!  We  have  sat  through  some  awful 
evenings  in  our  sad  career,  but,  ye  gods  and 
whitebait!  Why,  I even  tried  to  sleep  by 
counting  sheep  jumping  over  a gate!  The 
snores  of  those  of  the  audience  who  had  not 
actually  died  in  their  seats  kept  me  pitifully 
conscious ! 

“The  cast  was  well  suited  to  the  produc- 
tion, being  a round-up  of  the  waifs  of  the 
Rialto,  and  of  all  these  shabby  and  flabby 
hams,  the  worst  was  Haddock  Wart!  How 
that  superannuated  old  freight-car  tourist 
ever  persuades  any  manager,  even  Einstein, 
to  place  him  in  any  play  is  beyond  our  reck- 
oning, even  in  a thinking  part- — but  as  a 
principal  his  unpleasant  presence  before  the 
footlights  is  an  insult  to  the  cheesiest  audi- 
ence! The  ^Moll-Buzzer’  when  it  goes  to- 
night to  the  storehouse  will  outrank  the 
rankest  of  the  failures  of  a generation.” 

“For  the  love  of  Modjeska!  How  can 
two  papers  have  such  different  opinions?” 

“My  boy,  my  bo-o-oy!  Whoever  said 
they  had?  Read  between  the  lines!” 


Theaters 


119 


“Well,  what  am  I to  think?” 

“YouVe  not  supposed  to.  Just  ask  some- 
one,  whose  opinion  to  you  is  worthless,  what 
he  thinks  of  the  play,  and  if  he  thinks  it’s 
poor  get  seats  immediately!” 

You  go  to  the  box  office,  in  your  inno- 
cence, to  get  seats.  There  is  a man  ahead 
of  you,  and  you  listen  to  the  talk.  It  goes 
like  this : 

“Two  seats  for  to-night.” 

The  gent  who  has  the  seats  to  sell  is  pro- 
tected by  a bronze  grill.  You  understand 

why  this  is  later  on. 

Gent  gives  the  customer  a quick  sizing- 
up  glance  and  sees  that  his  suit  is  made  out 
of  wool  off  a regular  sheep  and  not  the 
Mississippi  breed  that  gives  cotton.  If  the 
customer  had  worn  one  of  the  latter  or  had 
skewered  his  bow  tie  with  a scarf  pin,  the 
box  office  gent  would  have  asked,  “Balcony 
or  orchestra?” 

In  this  case  he  says  nothing,  but  looks 
through  a bunch  of  tickets,  picks  out  two, 
puts  them  up  to  their  waists  in  an  envelope, 
and  pushes  them  under  the  grill. 

“Where  are  they?” 


120  I Should  Say  So  ! 


“Fifteenth  row — very  good  seats.” 

“How  many  rows  are  there  in  the  orches- 
tra?” 

The  B.  O.  fdler  gives  customer  an  awful 
look. 

“Sixteen.” 

“Are  they  behind  a pillar?” 

“There  isn’t  a pillar  in  the  house.  They’re 
very  good  seats.”  The  B.  O.  feller  rises  on 
his  toes  and  looks  meaningly  over  the  cus- 
tomer’s shoulders. 

Customer  gets  the  movement  and  is  bul- 
lied into  saying,  “Oh,  all  right,  I’ll  take 
’em.”  Flands  out  a clean  five-dollar  bill 
and  gets  a sick  one-dollar  bill  in  change 
and  moves  away,  bumping  into  people  daz- 
edly as  he  puts  the  tickets  into  his  pocket- 
book.  He  also  may  be  heard  muttering 
something  about  being  damned  if  he  will 
give  up  fifty  cents  more  on  a ticket  to  Ty- 
son’s, anyway! 

Also  the  glass  door  swings  back  a hissed 
“Graft!” 

You  step  up  and  say  to  the  B.  O.  F.  “He’d 
have  gotten  the  idea  of  the  location  of  his 
seats  quicker  if  you  had  said  one  row  from 
the  back,  wouldn’t  he?” 


Theaters 


121 


“Is  that  so!  Do  you  want  seats?” 

“Yes,  I do.  Two  for  to-night.  What 
row?” 

“Fifteenth.” 

You  smile  a lopsided  and  cynical  smile. 

“All  right.” 

That  night  you  go  to  the  theater.  You 
hand  the  usherine  the  ticket  stubs,  hoping 
foolishly  against  all  reason  that  somehow 
the  seats  will  miraculously  be  way  down 
near  the  footlights-— you  know  they  can’t 
be,  but  still^ — ■ 

They  are  not. 

Two  bulbous  old  citizenesses  of  Mosholu 
stand  groaningly  up  and  try  to  flatten  them- 
selves out  so  you  can  pass  on  to  your  seats. 
You  see  that  you  cannot  possibly  walk 
straight  past  them,  and  you  wonder  which 
is  the  least  unrefined  manner  to  get  by  them. 
Just  as  you  decide  and  start,  one  of  the 
citizenesses  says,  “Oh,  wait — ” and  grabs 
her  hat  from  where  she  has  pinned  it  on 
the  nickel-in-the-slot  machine  in  front  of 
her.  You  think  for  a second  she  is  after 
your  watch. 

After  you  are  seated  and  help  your  wife 


122  I Should  Say  So  ! 


unstrangle  herself  out  of  her  cloak  and  pick 
up  her  opera-glass  bag  seven  or  eight  times, 
and  say,  “O,  my  God,  can’t  you  hang  on  to 
anything?”  you  look  in  the  direction  of  the 
stage,  and  gasp  like  a catfish  in  a bucket  of 
flour!  You  seem  to  be  gazing  into  a mat- 
tress with  the  cover  off.  Of  course  it  is  just 
your  confounded  luck  to  be  behind  one  of 
the  largest  heads  of  hair  in  the  world!  The 
woman  probably  had  more  hair  than  was 
strictly  decent  to  start  with,  and  she  must 
have  borrowed  large  consignments  of  it 
from  easy-going  cousins.  You  look  forward 
in  an  unfeeling  way  to  curvature  of  the 
spine  for  her.  She  needn’t  come  sniveling 
to  you  for  sympathy  when  she  gets  it!  You 
try  to  get  a glimpse  of  the  stage  through  a 
hollow  curl  that  is  pointing  toward  you,  but 
the  darn  thing  curves  at  the  farther  end 
and  leads  up  toward  the  ceiling. 

The  curtain  goes  up,  and  by  leaning  your 
chin  on  the  shoulder  of  a beautiful  young 
girl  on  your  left  you  manage  to  see  half  an 
actor  or  so  at  a time.  Behind  in  the  next 
row  is  a family  lately  from  Grand  Street. 
(To  those  of  you  who  are  not  Newyorkers, 


YOU  SEEM  TO  BE  GAZING  INTO  A MATTRESS 
WITH  THE  COVER  OFF 


Theaters 


125 


Grand  Street  is  in  one  of  our  most  exclu- 
sive  residence  sections!)  They  help  the 
evening  entertainment  by  a steady  flow  of 
conversation,  and  they  all  tuck  what  they 
can  of  their  large  feet  into  the  backs  of  the 
seats  in  front  of  them,  which  gives  you 
a particularly  uncomfortable  feeling  that 
some  one  is  trying  to  get  into  your  hip 
pocket  and  not  caring  a whoop  how  long 
it  takes  to  do  it. 

Then,  in  a very  tense  moment,  when  the 
flapper  heroine  is  taking  her  nightie  and 
her  baby-grand  piano  out  onto  the  moors 
rather  than  be  a bone  of  contention  between 
her  father  and  his  stenographer,  and  there 
is  a hush  in  the  audience  as  solemn  as  a 
British  family  looking  over  the  comic  pa- 
pers, some  old  beagle  in  the  orchestra  starts 
coughing.  This  gets  ’em  all  going  and  it  is 
only  a moment  when  they  are  in  full  cry, 
barking  away  madly  like  the  Dorsetshire 
Hounds,  I mean  to  say! 

It’s  a bronchial  panic. 

After  you  have  taken  a full  course  in 
theatergoing  you  are  led  to  make  the  fol- 
lowing observations : 


126  I Should  Say  So  ! 


The  fourth  act  in  either  comedy  or  trag- 
edy is  always  an  anti-climax. 

In  the  last  act  of  a comedy  it  is  always 
the  next  morning  and  the  drawing-room  is 
always  untidy  and  the  ladies  always  come 
down-stairs  into  it  yawning  and  protesting 
that  they  haven’t  slept  a wink. 

Tallow  candles  used  on  the  stage  must  be 
abnormally  powerful.  When  one  is  brought 
into  a dark  room  the  room  gradually  be- 
comes as  brilliantly  illumined  as  Child’s 
restaurant.  Not  suddenly,  but  gradually. 

Women  who  come  to  the  theater  hatted 
always  wait  until  the  curtain  starts  up  be- 
fore they  remove  their  lids. 

I have  seen  men  in  aisle  seats  who  did  not 
get  up  and  go  out  between  the  acts. 

Billy  Burke  and,  hence,  all  other  young 
actorines  with  yeller  hair  say,  “Dunt,” 
when  they  mean  “Don’t.  It’s  awful  cute, 
but  it  makes  you  want  to  go  outdoors  and 
kick  a blind  black-and-tan  terrier  into  the 
Ambrose  Channel! 

When  the  coat-room  boy  in  the  foyer  says 
several  times  in  quick  succession  to  you, 
“Check  your  coat!”  you  wish  there  were 


THE  AMERICAN  BUSINESS  MAN  ALWAYS  FINDS 
IT  NECESSARY  TO  BLOW  SMOKE  GENEROUSLY 
IN  THE  FACE  OF  EVERY  WOMAN  IN  THE  PLAY 


' f 

• 

: A • 
S'- 


s,^'' 


- A ••’. 


y 


fe 


• "X- 


•■iri 


Theaters 


129 


some  way  of  getting  around  that  notice  in 
the  decalogue  about  killing. 

An  actor  who  portrays  a character  lower 
socially  and  morally  and  physically  than  the 
average  run  of  shad  gets  greater  applause 
than  one  who  portrays  a character  corre- 
spondingly higher  in  scale.  Which  is  un- 
just, because  it  is  not  very  difficult  to  as- 
sume a lower  status.  Try  it  yourself  and 
see. 

The  actor  who  plays  an  American  Busi- 
ness Man,  especially  the  British  brand  of 
actor,  always  finds  it  necessary,  in  order 
to  put  the  character  over,  to  chew  a large 
cigar  unpleasantly  and  blow  smoke  gen- 
erously in  the  face  of  every  woman  in  the 
play. 

You  add  to  this  a few  of  the  bromidiums 

you  hear: 

“Yes,  we  go  to  the  theater  four  or  five 
nights  a week— what  else  is  there  to  do, 

evenings?” 

“We  go  every  year  to  see  John  Drew, 
of  course.  He’s  a regular  institution.” 

“I  can’t  stand  May  Irwin;  but  she  is 

funny!” 


130  I Should  Say  So! 


“Gee,  aren’t  these  rotten  seats?  They 
told  me  they  were  not  under  the  balcony!” 

Between  the  acts:  She  (laughing),  “You 
always  ask  me  if  I mind,  John-^-but  you 
always  go  out!” 


/ Should  Say  So  ! 


WHERE  TO  SUMMER  WELL 


BORF/5  HEAD  IMN 


DIMMER. 


I Should  Say  So ! 


TVhere  to  Summer  W^ell 

Bore's  Head  Inn^  Cotanpansett,  Mass. 
Season  of  1913 


The  Management  begs  to  announce 
the  yearly  or  annual  opening  of 
Bores  Head  Inn 


and  extends  a chastely  passionate  welcome 
to  our  former  patrons,  if  living,  and  warm- 
ly assures  our  potential  new  friends  of 
the  continued  perfection  of  our  cuisine, 
of  which  we  have  three,  and  the  same 
care  and  attention  and  uniform  cour- 
tesy at  bill-presenting  time  that  has  dis- 
tinguished us  in  the  past,  the  equal  of 
which  cannot  be  found  in  any  other  part 
of  New  England,  nay  not  nearer  than  the 
Faubourg  Saint-Germain. 

A Word  About  Cotanpansett 


Situated  as  it  is,  on  a large  bluff,  it  com- 


134  I Should  Say  So  ! 


mands,  as  in  the  past,  an  unrestricted  view 
of  most  of  the  mighty,  blue  Atlantic 
(ocean) . 

Cotanpansett  (an  Indian  name  signify- 
ing “Paradise’^  and  “Tired  Business 
Man”)  is  a typical  old  New  England 
Village  with  its  quaint  Colonial  Homes 
and  its  Revolutionary  Block-IIouses  and 
Things,  which  deserve  and  will  receive  a 
word  to  themselves  later. 

Accessibility , Trains^  Etc. 

Fast  and  Luxurious  trains  pass  our  Vil- 
lage Beautiful  every  half  hour  of  the  day. 

Provision  has  been  made  for  the  auto- 
mobilist,  Cotanpansett  and  environs  being 
justly  celebrated  for  the  lavishness  and 
profusion  of  its  speed-traps.  A large  and 
commodious  ell  has  been  added  to  the 
county  jail  to  accommodate  the  increasing 
influx  of  motorists. 

The  Inn  Itself 

Passing  through  the  Village,  up  Main 
Street,  protected  every  inch  of  the  way 
from  the  ardent  rays  of  Old  Sol  by  the 
Gypsy  and  Brown-Tail  Moths  which  cover 


BORE  S HEAD  INN 


To  Summer  W^ell  131 


the  bare  branches  of  the  justly  proud  old 
elms  in  the  most  affectionate  and  hos- 
pitable manner,  and  turning  abruptly  at 
the  sight  of  the  soldiers’  monument  and 
retreating  in  the  opposite  direction  under 
the  elms,  as  in  the  past,  passing  Me- 
Clusky’s  Celebrated  Drug  & Novelties 
Store,  we  come  to 

Boreas  Head  Inn 

the  Haven  of  Rest,  the  Home  of  Innocent 
Pastime,  the  Paradise  of  Yachtsmen,  the 
Nirvana  of  Refined  Relaxation,  the  Nest 
of  Exquisite  though  Simple  Family  Life. 

Situated  as  it  is,  as  in  the  past,  cozily 
ensconced  behind  Leatherbee’s  Salt  Hake 
Storehouse,  protected  from  the  more  bois- 
terous zephyrs  of  the  Restless  Deep, 
though  enjoying  the  peculiar  maritime 
aroma  that  is  constantly  wafted  Hotelward 
from  Leatherbee’s,  it  offers  a charming 
picture  to  the  beholder,  with  its  entirely 
renovated  appearance,  as  the  old  mosquito 
netting  has  been  renewed,  regardless  of 
expense,  at  all  doors  and  windows,  and 
eight  new  piazza  chairs  have  been  added 


138  I Should  Say  So  ! 


to  the  other  two,  making,  in  all,  ten  chairs 

on  the  capacious  veranda  which  completely 
surrounds  the  INN  on  two  sides. 

What  the  mind  of  man  can  conceive  of 
to  enhance  the  natural  beauties  of  the 
grounds  has  been  done,  even  to  the  re- 
painting of  the  entire  croquet  set.  Nor 
has  the  Child,  the  Father  of  the  Man, 
been  neglected.  We  welcome  the  Child. 
The  swing  has  been  mended. 

Inside  the  Inn 

Our  old  friends  will  hardly  recognize  the 
old  surroundings,  such  have  been  the  im- 
provements. For  instance,  they  will  be 
astounded  at  the  spaciousness  in  the  Main 
Flail  this  summer.  The  Japanese  umbrella 
has  given  way  to  the  safe  in  the  fireplace, 
thus  giving  more  floor  space. 

Quite  as  important  changes  have  been 
made  in  the  Parlor.  The  crinkled  salmon- 
hued  lamp  shade  of  yester  year,  though 
handsome  in  itself,  has  been  replaced  by 
a more  modern  and  artistic  glass  shade 
decorated  by  hand  with  a charming  design 
of  poppies  and  mussel  shells. 


SOLDIERS’  MONUMENT 


To  Summer  JT^ell  141 


We  feel  that  we  owe  it  to  our  sense  of 
right  to  mention  that  the  work  was  done 
by  our  Miss  Peabody,  who  not  only  has 
served  us  faithfully  for  eighteen  years  in 
the  capacity  of  Room  Clerk  and  Writer  of 
Menus  but  has  been  uniformly  courteous 
to  our  guests~“-nay,  has  been  a friend  and 
companion  to  many  and  is  ready  this  sum- 
mer, as  in  the  past,  to  act  as  a refined  so- 
cial intermediary  to  those  of  our  guests 
who,  through  a sense  of  timidity,  do  not 
make  acquaintances  easily. 

The  cupola  has  been  redecorated  and  the 
floor  covered  with  a magnificent  grass  rug. 
A superb  view  may  be  had  from  this  cozy 
retreat  of  the  handsome  and  stately  Asy- 
lum for  the  Insane,  which,  by  the  way,  is 
open  to  visitors. 

Note  and  fly  paper  may  be  had  at  any 
time  by  applying  at  the  desk.  A Checker 
and  a Ouija  Board  are  at  the  disposal  of 
guests  in  the  evenings. 

Bathing 

We  are  so  favorably  located  with  regard 
to  the  bathing  beach  that  bath  houses  are 


142  I Should  Say  So! 


indeed  unnecessary,  it  being  only  a scant 
half-hour’s  walk  from  the  INN  to  the  bil- 
lows, when  you  are  once  past  the  railroad 
track. 

Our  guests  are  urged  to  bathe  in  front 
of  the  Slumgimquit  House,  as  they  pro- 
vide a life-saver  during  the  entire  season. 

Walks,  Drives,  Etc. 

Dame  Nature  has  indeed  been  lavish  in 
her  allurements  to  those  who  love  her. 
The  country  round  about  is  unsurpassed 
in  sylvan  splendors,  and  countless  walks 
and  drives  woo.  As  a suggestion — it  is 
always  advisable  to  take  the  walk  first, 
because  the  nearest  livery  stable  is  Pratt’s, 
five  miles  east  of  Cotanpansett. 

Aquatic  Pleasures 

Every  description  of  sailing  craft  and 
pleasure  boat  is  at  the  command  of  the 
guests  of  the  INN.  To  many  it  is  a pleas- 
ure to  run  down  to  Boston  where  these 
marine  sports  may  be  indulged  in.  There 
has  been  placed  in  a conspicuous  place 
in  the  Office  a time-table  giving  the  com- 
plete summer  schedule  of  trains  to  the  city. 


A CORNER  OF  THE  LADIES’  PARLOR 


To  Summer  IVell  145 


All  of  our  guests  are  at  liberty  to  consult 
this  time-table  freely. 

Swimming  Races,  Regattas,  Canoeing, 
and  Surf  Riding  are  an  integral  part  of 
the  summer  life  at  the  shore  and  may  be 
indulged  in  by  one  and  all.  It  is  merely 
necessary  to  mention  your  intention  the 
night  before  to  the  room  clerk  and  she 
will  see  that  you  are  driven  to  the  Station 
in  time  to  catch  the  train  to  Marblehead, 
where  these  diversions  are. 

Places  of  Interest^  Etc. 

All  lovers  of  Architecture  will  find  the 
quaint  old  village  of  Gotanpansett  a mine 
of  interest.  Guests  of  the  INN  are  espe- 
cially invited  to  patronize  McClusky’s 
Celebrated  Drug  & Novelties  Store,  where 
one  may  find  a sumptuous  assortment  of 
drugs,  fishing  tackle,  Bulgarian  yarn,  can- 
dies, gasoline,  window  and  door  screens, 
farming  implements,  crackers,  fruit,  in 
fact,  everything  the  summer  tourist  may 
need. 

Mr.  McClusky  himself,  as  in  the  past, 
will  give  his  personal  attention  to  visitors, 


146  I Should  Say  So  ! 


when  permitted  by  his  arduous  duties  as 
driver  of  the  INN  Station  Barge,  and 
Postmaster,  too. 

Climate 

Cotanpansett  enjoys,  perhaps,  the  distinc- 
tion of  the  finest  climate  in  the  civilized 
world.  It  combines,  happily,  the  con- 
stant warmth  of  Southern  California  with 
the  invigorating  freshness  of  Maine. 

Situated,  as  it  is,  on  a bluff. 

T erms 

Terms  are  very  reasonable,  when  taking 
into  consideration  the  improvements  that 
have  been  made  with  no  stinting  hand. 

The  Management  begs  to  say,  in  closing, 
that  the  management  is  under  the  per- 
sonal supervision  of  the  manager. 

That  everything  that  can  be  done  to  our 
guests  will  be  done,  cheerfully.  As  in  the 
past. 


THE  ATLANTIC  OCEAN  FROM  OUR  VERANDA— A SKETCH 
BY  MISS  PEABODY.  MISS  PEABODY  DID  THIS  FREE 
HAND.  SHE  NEVER  TOOK  A LESSON  IN  HER  LIFE 


I Should  Say  So  ! 
PARLOR  ENTERTAINERS 


JULIAN  STREET 


I Should  Say  Sol 


Parlor  F^ntertainers 

or 

The  Tragedy  of  Success 

Life  for  married  men  nowadays  is 
just  one  damned  hook  after  another. 
^ You  pause  in  the  midst  of  your  sec- 
ond  shave  in  twelve  hours,  with  the  lather 
that  will  not  dry  on  the  face  doing  so,  to 
wrestle  with  Polly’s  hooks  and  eyes. 

You  cuss  Lady  Duff  Gordon  for  the 
devilish  flaps  and  cross  hitchings  and  over 
and  under  lairs  that  you  only  begin  to 
master  as  the  gown  is  about  to  be  discard- 
ed. When  you  cannot  find  a partner  for 
a certain  young  hook  you  surreptitiously 
hitch  him  on  to  a hunk  of  lace  or  a row 
of  insane  glass  beads,  without  a halt  in 
the  rhythm  lest  Polly  suspect! 

And  when  a hook  hangs  back  and  re- 


152  I Should  Say  So! 


fuses  to  meet  a willing  eye  across  the  two- 
inch  chasm  you  grunt  and  mutter,  “Gee, 
you  must  be  getting  larger!”  or,  “Why  the 
deuce  don’t  you  pull  those  strings  tighter 
so  this  dress  will  meet”  By  the  way,  why 
is  it  that  in  moments  of  emotional  stress 
men  will  forget  that  they  are  “gowns”  or 
“frocks”  and  not  “dresses”? 

These  impolite  remarks  of  yours  natur- 
ally rile  Polly,  so  she  says,  “Let  it  go-™ 
I’ll  ring  for  Sandra— -she  understands!” 

This,  as  was  intended,  stimulates  you 
with  renewed  determination  to  complete 
the  work  if  you  sacrifice  eight  fingernails. 
And  you  reply:  “Of  course  Sandra’s  men- 
tality is  much  superior  to  mine — blu,  blu, 
blu,  etc.,  etc.”  If  you  looked  over  Polly’s 
shoulder  into  the  mirror  you  would  see  her 
winking  wickedly  at  herself. 

Just  as  you  have  nearly  stretched  that 
little  gauzy  triangular  patch  across  the 
V between  the  shoulder  blades  Polly,  of 
course,  raises  her  arm  and  begins  rubbing 
off  the  excess » powder  around  her  pretty 
nose.  You  lose  the  combination. 

“If  you  expect  me  to  hook  this  dam- 


Parlor  Entertainers  153 


thing  while  you  are  isadoraduncaning  all 

over  the  room  you  are  laboring  under  a 
delusion!”  You  get  this  off  with  the  usual 
restraint  and  anxiety  for  understatement 
of  the  regular  husband. 

Discreet  silence.  The  work  is  at  last 
completed.  You  smile  with  pity  when 
you  think  of  all  that  talk  about  the  Panama 
Canal  being  such  a stupendous  feat  of 
engineering. 

All  this  to  go  to  a party.  Of  course  you 
expect  to  have  a reasonably  decent  time. 
What  sort  of  a party?  Oh,  just  a party. 

And  then,. by  Heck,  after  you  get  there 
and  everything  seems  to  be  going  pleas- 
antly  the  hostess,  without  warning,  asks 
Somebody  to  Do  Something! 

You  know  what  that  means!  You,  who 
have  left  your  more  or  less  comfortable 
home — where  you  might  be  now  if  you 
had  in  the  least  suspected  what  was  in 
store  for  you — you  are  to  be  entertained! 
Do  those  words,  “To  be  entertained,”  sug- 
gest the  pinnacle  of  awfulness?  They  do. 
Yes’m. 

It  would  be  bad  enough  if  the  enter- 


154  I Should  Say  So  ! 


tainers  were  hired,  but  the  added  horror 

of  it  all  is  that  they  are  personal  friends, 
people  for  whom  you  nurse  a regard,  peo- 
ple you  like  to  think  kindly  of,  people  you 
mention  to  other  people  with  a certain  pos- 
sessive pride! 

The  first  time  you  heard  them  Do  Some- 
thing, if  you  can  remember  that  far  back, 
it  did  amuse  you,  by  Jove,  it  really  did! 
You  laughed,  you  applauded— you  might 
have  even  asked  them  to  do  it  again. 
Which  they  did. 

But  after  you  have  heard  them  do  their 
stunts  for  two  or  three  decades — well,  you 
know  what  water  dropping  on  a stone  will 
do  to  the  stone! 

The  Parlor  Entertainer  usually  begins 
his  career  innocently  enough.  Let’s  take 
his  growth  step  by  jump.  He  has  been,  say, 
a rather  successful  writer  for  the  maga- 
zines, and  through  his  talent  and  his  ability 
to  placate  office-boys  and  editors  had 
gained  a respectable  footing  on  the  moving 
sidewalk  of  contemporary  letters.  He  has 
every  reason  to  hope  for  the  time  when 
great  magazine  editors  will  call  him  by 


CHARLIE  TOWNE  AS  MRS.  FISKE 


\ 


.'A- 


,V-'^ 


t- 


- i. 


[ 


Parlor  Entertainers  151 


his  nickname  and  go  to  lunch  with  him 
at  the  Players’  Club.  The  future  is  glit^ 
tering.  Kipling  is  shrinking.  O.  Henry’s 
cutaway  is  getting  a bit  tight  for  him 
across  the  chest.  He  feels  that,  as  Gouver^- 
neur  Morris  would  say,  this  is  the  best  of 
all  possible  worlds! 

One  evening,  out  of  the  Nowhere,  comes 
an  impulse  to  give  an  imitation  of  Harry 
Lauder.  Pie  gives  it  without  any  an- 
nouncement. The  little  gathering  whoops 
with  delight  and  some  one  says,  “That’s 
the  best  imitation  of  Albert  Chevalier  I 
ever  heard-~-do  it  again!”  From  that  mo- 
ment he  is  ruined! 

Some  of  the  same  people  that  were  with 
him  that  evening  are  at  the  next  party  he 
goes  to,  and  they  cry,  “Give  us  that  Albert 
Chevalier  stunt,  Plank!”  And  so  it  goes. 
He  is  delighted  with  his  success.  Nothing 
exceeds  like  success.  His  regular  work, 
while  extremely  promising,  has  postponed 
payment — his  stunt  has  succeeded  instantly. 
It  haunts  him  as  he  tries  to  write  that 
story  for  Munsey’s.  He  smiles  to  himself 
as  he  hangs  to  his  strap  on  his  way  home 


158  I Should  Say  So! 


in  the  evening,  so  that  those  near  him  edge 
away  fearfully  as  from  a madman. 

He  doesn’t  confine  his  imitation  to  even- 
ing parties.  He  will  do  it  anywhere.  On 
ferries,  trains,  in  the  Park,  in  restaurants, 
anywhere  a few  friends  happen  to  be.  The 
years  roll  on  and  he  still  does  his  Cheva- 
lier. He  reasons  it  out  just  as  the  vaude- 
ville actor  does;  if  he  has  made  a hit  why 
tempt  the  fates  by  doing  something  dif- 
ferent? Why  should  he,  indeed?  Don’t 
they  still  clamor  for  it? 

At  the  tail  end  of  a party  when  the 
clock  is  striking  Neurasthenia  and  some 
begin  to  think  of  the  busy  little  meter 
racing  its  head  off  in  the  Gunman’s  Gon- 
dola below,  there  comes  a scraping  of 
chair  legs  and  a flurry  around  the  piano. 

“What  are  they  going  to  do?” 

“Julian  Street  is  going  to  sing  ‘Fred- 
erick Townsend  Martin’!” 

“Oh,  my  God — — ” 

Julian  eagerly  leaps  to  the  piano-side, 
saying,  “IGyou  knew  how  I hate  it!”  You 
knew  that  if  he  was  going  to  sing  it  would 
be  “Frederick  Townsend  Martin.”  Julian 


3i\) " Xrvmin 


BILL  IRWIN  TELLS  HIS  FAMOUS  STORY  OF 
THE  GREATEST  NEWSPAPER  BREAK 


Parlor  Rntertainers  1 61 


has  a copy  of  the  song  typewritten  on  white 
silk  sewed  into  his  dress  coat  So  you  say, 
‘‘Yes,  I heard  him  sing  that  just  after  the 
battle  of  Gettysburg!”  Which  is  not  strict^ 
ly  true,  but  as  he  is  a close  friend  of  yours 
you  feel  privileged  to  say  sarcastic  things. 

Another  terrible  phase  of  this  Parlor 
Entertaining  is  that  if  one  Entertainer 
does  his  time-honored  and  classic  imita- 
tion or  song  every  other  one  in  the  room 
will  feel  grossly  insulted  if  not  asked  to 
contribute  his  quota  to  the  last  sad  rites 
of  the  dying  party.  Hence  the  term,  “Ex- 
treme Unction.” 

Charlie  Towne  (a  poet)  then  whispers 
out  of  the  side -of  his  mouth  to  his  neighbor, 
“Get  me  to  do  ‘Mrs.  FiskeM” 

So  they  get  him.  Sweetly  smiling  and 
murmuring,  “Gawd,  how  I loathe  it!”  he 
arranges  four  chairs  and  gives  his  imitation 
of  Mrs.  Fiske  in  a scene  from  “Leah 
Kleschna.” 

I can  imagine  him  in  his  home,  in  his 
library,  sitting  alone  at  his  desk  trying  to 
think  of  a rhyme  for  “Butterick.”  Sud- 
denly he  leaps  to  his  feet  The  time  draws 


162  I Should  Say  So  ! 


near  when,  in  ordinary  circumstances,  he 
would  be  at  a party  doing  “Mrs.  Fiske.” 
With  feverish  and  temperamental  haste  he 
arranges  four  chairs  and  goes  to  it.  Then 
as  the  usual  applause  is  lacking  he  comes  to 
with  a start  and  shudders.  “Take  it  away— 
take  it  away!’’  The  head  of  the  tiger-skin 
rug  grins  up  at  him  and  seems  to  hiss, 
“Haunted  1” 

Then  Will  Irwin  tells  his  famous  story 
of  the  greatest  newspaper  break — the  one 
about  The  Pope  eloping  with  Lilian  Rus- 
sell,— and  always  puts  it  ofif  as  being  some 
one  else’s  story.  But  he  cannot  escape  that 
way!  By  the  immutable  laws  of  the  Parlor 
and  the  Banquet  he  is  doomed  to  tell  that 
story  “till  the  sands  of  the  desert  grow 
cold!” 

There  are  two  distinguished  entertainers 
who  are  more  fortunate  than  the  average 
Stuntite,  inasmuch  as  they  bear  the  burden 
of  one  story  between  them,  one  Haunt  that 
does  for  two.  They  are  Paul  Armstrong 
and  Lindsay  Denison,  and  the  Stunt  is  the 
story  of  “Pansy.” 

When  Jim  Barnes  gets  on  his  feet  it  is 


OLD  IRV  COBB:  “GIT  HUNG.  NIGGER— GIT  HUNG!” 


Parlor  Entertainers  165 


only  to  do  ‘‘Fairfax,  Fairfax  County,  Vir- 
ginia.^’ 

Everybody  knows  that  Safford  will  do 
the  “Jabberwock.” 

If  Tom  Daly  didn’t  do  a wop  poem  they 

would  feel  outraged. 

And  if  Old  Irv  Cobb,  the  Burnt  Cork 
King,  didn’t  tell  that  story  about  “Git 
hung.  Nigger”  they  would  mob  him. 
Wildhack  can’t  eat  his  banquet  in  peace 
till  he  has  done  “The  Battle  of  Metz.” 
Burgess  Johnson  would  burst  into  tears  if 
no  one  asked  him  to  do  “The  Man  With 
the  Wooden  Arm.” 

I think  the  Amalgamated  Parlorites  of 
American  should  in  self-defense  sometime 
give  a dinner  to  themselves  and  do  noth- 
ing hut  eat — not  a thing! 

But  you  might  as  well  say  to  a mor- 
phiend,  “Stop  morphing  instantly!”  He 
couldn’t  do  it.  His  will  power  is  gone! 

You  who  are  the  fathers  of  boys,  think! 
Or,  as  Herbert  Kaufman  would  say, 
“THINK!” 

If  you  catch  any  of  your  young  sons 
giving  imitations  of  phonographs,  cows. 


166  I Should  Say  So! 


sawmills,  dogs  five  miles  away,  soda  water 
entering  a glass,  cats  fighting,  young  chick- 
ens, catching  a bumble-bee,  baby  crying, 
or  any  imitation  of  anything  animate  or 
inanimate,  don’t  laugh — do  that  which 
hurts  you  more  than  it  does  them,  but  not 
in  the  identical  way!  Do  anything  to  head 
off,  to  discourage  a tendency  that  if  al- 
lowed to  become  a habit  will  bring  only 
pain  in  the  future! 

If  we  but  knew  the  inside  story  of  the 
lives  of  these  Human  Sacrifices  to  the  god 
of  Ennui,  these  helpless  prolongers  of 
petering  parties! 

Many  of  them  appear  happy  and  nor- 
mal, but  under  more  than  one  gleaming 
shirt  front  their  One  Stunt  is  doing  what 
that  beastly  fox  did  to  that  Spartan  kid! 

{The  author^  with  true  author  modesty, 
omits  his  own  name  from  this  list,  where 
of  course  it  belongs.  No  dinner  is  com- 
plete without  Flagg^s  Instantaneous  Car- 
icatures Made  While  You  Speech.- — The 
Editor.) 


/ Should  Say  So  / 


‘‘COME  LIVE  WITH  ME  AND 
BE  MY  COOK.r^ 


/ Should  Say  So ! 


Come  Live  With  Me  and 
Be  My  CookL’’ 

I’LL  BET  I can  bag  a cook,  and  bring 
it  home  to-day,  at  that!” 

“Go  to  it,  Billy!”  smiles  Polly, 
punching  another  pillow  in  the  solar  plexus 
and  poking  it  behind  her  as  she  settled  her- 
self on  the  lounge. 

“Smile  on,  woman,  but  I mean  it!  It’s 
arrant  nonsense  to  say  there  isn’t  such  an 

animal.” 

“I  didn’t  say  so;  I said  I hadn’t  found 

one  yet!” 

“You’ve  been  at  it  for  eight  days  and 
we  are  still  eating  the  messes  that  Great 
Auk  sends  in  to  us.  I have  said  nothing.” 

“Nothing!”  snorts  Friend  Consort  on  the 
lounge.  “You  have  made  a noise  like  an 
outraged  husband  at  every  meal!” 


IIO  I Should  Say  So  / 


“Well,  be  that  as  it  isn’t,  the  time  has 
come  for  action!  I can  no  longer  stand 
having  burnt  suspender-buttons  called  fried 
potatoes,  nor  yet  can  I with  any  degree  of 
pleasure  cut  into  an  Indian  basket  filled 
with  concrete  because  the  Great  Auk  has 
broken  a bottle  of  Burnett’s  Vanilla  Ex- 
tract over  its  bows  and  murmured,  ‘I 
christen  thee  Apple  Pie!’  The  crowning 
piece  of  wanton  deception  was  this  morn- 
ing when  I,  in  my  trusting  and  fatuous 
innocence,  thought  she  had  sent  in  some 
brand-new  chamois  pen-wipers^  and  was 
about  to  rise  and  lay  them  on  the  desk — ” 

“You  refer  to  the  griddle-cakes?” 

“Aye,  verily,  none  other!  This  ends 
to-day!  I shall  bring  home  and  lay  at 
your  feet  a regular  cook!  AdiosT^ 

Billy  knew  that  in  order  to  get  a cook 
one  had  to  hike  over  to  Fourth  Avenue 
and  look  up  the  Swedish  embassy  or  the 
Finnish  legation.  He  soon  came  to  one 
of  them.  There  was  a long  line  of  limou- 
sines drawn  up  at  the  curb.  Billy  noticed 
that  the  chauffeurs  were  all  looking  anx- 


THIS  IS  IT ! ’ SMILED  S.  H.  LUDWIG’ 


Live  With  Me 113 


iously  up  at  the  doorway  of  the  embassy. 

From  the  expressions  of  those  chauffeurs’ 
faces  he  gathered  that  their  employers  had 
told  them  to  wait  within  ear-shot,  and  if 
they  heard  the  slightest  report  of  a revolver 
to  break  in  immediately! 

Getting  a cook  was  a more  serious  game 
than  he  had  imagined! 

He  went  up  the  steps  with  a manner 
of  well-simulated  confidence,  and  entered. 
Around  the  walls  of  the  shabby-genteel 
office  sat  humble  American  ladies  backed 
threateningly  into  corners  and  being  men- 
aced by  the  powers  of  Europe! 

The  ladies  sat  well  back  in  their  chairs, 
holding  their  muffs  or  bags  up  for  pro- 
tection. The  foreign  powers  sat  well  for- 
ward, catechising  and  cross-examining  their 
potential  mi??tre??e?. 

While  waiting  to  be  noticed,  Billy  stood 
fascinated,  listening  to  scraps  of  inter- 
views from  all  along  the  line. 

‘Well,  sir?”  A foreign  gentleman  with 
a remarkably  square  head,  sitting  at  a 
desk,  addressed  him. 

‘I  want  to  get  a — a — Let’s  see — ” 


U' 


Let’s  see 


114  I Should  Say  Sol 


Billy  could  hardly  tear  his  eyes  away 
from  one  corner  of  the  office  where  a 
rangy  brute  of  a Norwegian  laundress 
was  giving  a timid  little  lady  from  the 
Bronx  a bad  five  minutes." 

“Yes,  sir!” 

“Oh,  yes,  I am  looking  for  a — what 
d’y’  call  ’em? — cook!” 

“What  wages  will  you  pay,  sir?” 

“Thirty-five  dollars.  And  I want  a 
damn  good  cook  at  that!” 

“You  can’t  expect  a first-class  cook,  of 
course,  for  those  wages.  Still,  I think  I 
have  what  you  want.”  Square  Head  Lud- 
wig disappears  behind  a partition.  “Young 
and  good-looking!”  Billy  yells  after  him. 

S.  H.  Ludwig  reenters,  leading  an  Aw- 
ful Retrospect  in  with  him. 

“What’s  this?”  asks  Billy. 

“This  is  a nice  young  Danish  cook!” 

“She  may  be  Danish,  but  I categorically 
deny  that  she  is  either  nice  or  young,  and 
I doubt  her  cooking!  Take  it  back.”  Billy 
waved  his  hand. 

S.  H.  Ludwig  raises  his  wooden  eye- 
brows and  returns  to  the  den  with  the 


4« 


HE  IS  SHOWN  A STRING  . . . ALL  SIZES  AND  AGES” 


..''■‘a*- 


“ Live  With  Me ! ” 111 


nice  young  thing  from  Denmark.  Billy 
can  hear  him  arguing  vehemently  on  the 
other  side  of  the  partition  with  some  un- 
seen female.  He  catches  such  phrases  as, 
‘‘Only  two  in  the  family,”  and  “Nice,  easy” 
something — whether  himself  or  his  wife, 
Billy  doesn’t  catch. 

Reenter  Ludwig  with  another  Terrible 
Blight,  with  a mustache  no  sophomore 
would  need  to  be  sensitive  about,  and 
circular  earrings  like  sailors  are  supposed 
to  wear,  which  have  almost  pulled  them- 
selves away  through  her  ears. 

“I  am  not  engaging  a company  to  play 
Macbeth  or  I would  take  her  for  one  of 
the  Witches  of  Endor!  Where  is  the 
young  Norwegian  girl  cooking-school 
graduate  that  you  advertise?”  Billy  is 
getting  a bit  peeved. 

“This  is  it!”  smiles  S.  H.  Ludwig,  but 
waves  her  back. 

Billy  prays  for  self-control. 

“You  have  the  nerve  to  call  that  a young 
girl?  That  woman  who  was  a grand- 
mother when  Charlemagne  was  in  prep 
school!  Good  morning!” 


118  I Should  Say  So  ! 


Billy  dashes  out  of  the  place  and  hunts 

Up  another  one  and  enters.  He  is  shown 
a string  of  cooks  of  all  sizes  and  ages,  as 
in  the  first  place,  and  begins  to  have  a 
nightmarish  sort  of  feeling  that  he  will 
have  to,  or  at  least  in  all  decency  ought 
to,  marry  one  of  them.  He  feels  a little 
woozy  with  this  parade  of  all  the  nations 
going  on. 

“For  the  love  of  entrees,  bring  in  some- 
thing that  was  born  since  Aaron  Burr  shot 
Hamilton  W.  Mabiel  These  Banshee 
harems  are  getting  on  my  ganglionic 
nerve!” 

Still  another  great-aunt  of  a viking  is 
yanked  before  him. 

By  this  time  Billy  feels  that  he  is  going 
daffy,  and  decides  to  give  in  to  the  sensa- 
tion weakly. 

He  glares  at  the  ancient  stove-wrestler. 

“So,  my  young  Swedish  flapper!  Let’s 
see  your  references!” 

She  fumbles  in  a bag  and  fishes  out 
several  dirty  letters. 

“Yes,  yes;  but  where  is  your  reference 
from  Augustus  Cesar’s  wife  recommending 
your  rendition  of  Roman  Punch?” 


^^LiveWithMe!^^  119 

Ludwig  brings  in  another,  with  a tri- 
umphant smile. 

“There/’  exclaims  Billy,  “this  is  some- 
thing like!  Why  have  you  been  hiding 
this  Scandinavian  Venus  from  me  all  this 
time?”  Venus  giggles?  and  looks  down 

at  her  feet. 

“Can  you  come  right  along  with  me 
now?”  Billy  grins  delightedly. 

“How  many  in  fam’ly?”  asks  Venus. 

“Oh,  just  two— myself,  rny  wife  and 
myself,”  says  Billy.  “Come  on!” 

“Do  I have  to  wash?” 

“Well,  really! — I shall  leave  that  to  your 
better  and  higher  nature.” 

Ludwig  interprets.  “She  means,  does 
she  have  to  do  any  of  the  washing!” 

“OA^  excuse  me!  I didn’t  quite  get  you. 
No;  everything  of  ours  is  sent  out  to  the 
laundry.— Come  ahead!” 

“Do  you  have  much  company?” 

Billy  is  be  ginning  to  realize  that  there 
is  another  side  to  acquiring  a cook.  “Come 
over  here  and  sit  down,  and  pour  your 
little  heart  out  to  me.” 

So  he  and  Venus  sit  down,  Billy  looking 
anxiously  at  Venus. 


180  I Should  Say  So! 


“Now,  do  we  have  much  company? 
Never!  I detest  company!  We  never 
have  an  outsider  in  the  place!” 

“That’s  too  bad!  I like  to  have  com- 
pany. I like  to  cook  for  dinner-parties.” 

Billy  wilts,  and  mutters  to  himself,  “Can 
you  beat  that!  I could  have  sworn  I was 
saying  the  right  thing!” 

“What  I meant  to  say  was  that  we  are 
always  giving  dinner-parties.  I thought 
you  meant  company,  you  know — just 
strangers  off  the  street!” 

“Do  I have  a room  with  another  girl?” 

“No,  certainly  not;  you  have  a room  all 
to  yourself!”  (There,  I know  that’s  right, 
all  maids  like  rooms  to  themselves!) 

“I  not  like  that.  I bane  lonely!” 

Suffering  Crumpets!  Couldn’t  he  have 
guessed? 

“How  many  in  the  kitchen?” 

“Well,  that  depends;  sometimes  there 
are  anywhere  from  three  to  ten.  I’ve  seen 
nine  in  there  at  once  myself,  including 
the  night  watchman,  but — ” 

“How  many  servants?” 

“Oh!  Just  two— yourself  and  a wait- 
ress.” 


“SHE’S  LOOKING  FOR  A MAID  HERSELF,’ 

SMILES  THE  MAHOUT.  ‘THAT  IS  MISS  VERA  LIPSALVE 
OF  THE  WINTER  GARDEN.’" 


^^LiveJVithMe!^^  183 


“Just  one.  I not  take  the  place!”  She 
bounces  up  and  retires. 

At  the  next  embassy  Billy  was  trying 
to  describe  the  sort  of  a cook  he  wanted, 
and  he  suddenly  grasped  the  mahout  by 
the  wrist  and  pointed  rudely. 

“There!  the  one  with  the  black  hat  with 
the  white  feather  duster  on  it!  She  looks 
like  what  Fd  prefer  to  have  around  the 
house;  bring  her  over;  let  me  talk  to  her.” 

“She’s  looking  for  a maid  herself,” 
smiles  the  mahout.  “That  is  Miss  Vera 
Lipsalve  of  the  Winter  Garden!” 

Billy  promptly  has  an  attack  of  sun- 
stroke  mixed  with  asthma  and  the  pip! 

“That’s  where  I ought  to  have  blown 
in  in  the  first  place!  Still,  perhaps  it  is 
all  for  the  best!  Bring  on  some  Awful 
Villagers!” 

They  have  a little  parade  for  him,  and 
he  wishes  that  some  of  them  would  carry 
torches  and  some  come  in  on  floats  to  vary 
the  monotony.  It  has  become  second  na- 
ture to  him  by  this  time  to  repeat  mechan- 
ically to  each  one,  “Two  in  the  kitchen 


184  I Should  Say  So  / 


two  in  the  family  no  washing  the  cook  has 
to  wait  on  table  twice  every  other  week  do 
you  mind  living  in  an  apartment  yes  you 
have  a room  to  yourself  we  have  quite  a 
little  company  can  you  make  all  kinds  of 
hot  breads  pastry  desserts  and  entrees  thir- 
ty-five dollars!”  After  which  he  gasps, 
“Mmkal” 

The  ones  that  answer  correctly  and  have 
no  objections  to  anything  at  all  are  of 
course  the  ones  he  wouldn’t  consider  at 

all. 

As  he  said  to  the  mahout,  “As  the  cook 
will  have  to  wait  on  the  table  twice  every 
other  week,  she  has  to  be  able  to  pass 
things  without  sticking  her  stomach  at  you 
at  the  same  time,  if  you  know  what  I 
mean  1” 

By  this  time  the  afternoon  sun  is  step- 
ping over  the  Palisades,  and  Billy  has  had 
no  lunch.  He  has  been  to  every  ignorance 
parlor  on  Fourth  Avenue,  and  he  feels  as 
if  he  had  been  seeing  Europe! 

There  are  no  more  cooks  to  see!  In  the 
last  place  he  entered  all  they  could  dig 
up  was  a general-housework  girl  who  re- 


Live  With  Me 185 


fused  to  come  with  him  because  he  said 
to  her,  ‘‘I  see  you’re  Finnish!” 

So  when  worn  out  and  with  a rotten 
headache  he  let  himself  into  his  home 
about  six  o’clock,  of  course  Polly  was 
waiting  for  him  with  a peculiar  smile — a 
smile  that  combined  affectionate  sarcasm 
with  a sort  of  motherly  pity. 

‘Well?” 

“Well  what,  dear?” 

“Where’s  the  cook?” 

“What  cook?” 

“The  one  you  were  going  to  lay  at  my 

feet,  Billy  dear!” 

“Be  sweet  to  me,  kid!” 


I Should  Say  So  ! 


THE  CHLL  OF  THE  SEX 


188  I Should  Say  So/ 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  SEX  by 

James  Montgomery  Chambers,  illustrated 
by  Howard  Chandler  Flagg,  from  The 
American  Magazine  by  permission, 

TT  SEEMS  incredlible  that  The  American  Magazine,  being 
-*■  a fifteen-center,  has  so  far  failed  to  discover  Sex.  That  it 
has  refused  to  line  up  with  the  other  three-nickel  Home- 
Shockers  on  the  Topic  of  the  Hour  is  almost  unbelievable. 
Now  that  all  of  our  leading  Mucks  have  been  thoroughly 
raked  one  cannot  see  what  will  hold  the  public  and  get  its 
fifteen  cents  a month  out  of  it  unless  it  be  Sex.  Of  course 
in  a year  or  two  it  may  be  Humor,  or  Religion,  or  Athletics, 
or  Astronomy — but  the  latest  thing  is,  no  doubt,  Sex. 
History  has  produced  several  instances  where  the  influence 
of  Sex  might  have  been  distinctly  noticed  even  prior  to  that 
Edenic  affair,  but  the  thing  has  not  had  the  popular  attention 
it  deserves  until  recently.  Having  the  interests  of  this 
magazine  at  heart,  I have  persuaded  the  Old-Fashioned 
Editors  to  look  the  other  way  this  month  while  I slip  over  a 
little  Sex  stuff  in  order  to  boost  the  circulation  in  Puritan 
circles.  We  magazine  fellers  don’t  know  much  about  Art, 
but  we  know  what  They  like ! 


The  gripping  fiction  of  James  Montgomery 
Chambers  needs  no  introduction  to  our  8,427,- 
967  GUARANTEED  readers.  Here  we  have 
SEX,  rampant,  rampageous,  quivering,  yea,  snorting. 
Who  but  this  master  of  Sectional  fiction  could  have  con- 
ceived and  executed  this  stupendous  Story  of  Passion, 
abysmal,  chaotic,  typically  American,  yet  .virile.  In 
this  story  we  have  exponents  of  two  of  our  leading 
SEXES““"the  hairy,  primeval  Man-in-Khaki,  the  yield- 
ing yet  submissive  Woman.  Before  the  reader’s  pro- 
truding eyes  these  two  pawns  of  Destiny  are  hurtled 
pell-mell  into  a seething  maelstrom  of  pulsing  Passion. 
Go  to  it!  -—The  Editors, 


I Should  Say  Sol 


The  Call  of  the  Sex 

Chapter  I 

The  ardent  Cuban  sun  shone  down 
through  the  pall  of  smokeless  pow- 
der that  floated  over  the  soldiers 
of  Weyler  and  Shafter.  From  the  palm- 
clad  hills,  above  the  stricken  valley,  sound- 
ed the  steady  rasping  bark  of  eight  thou- 
sand merciless  Krag-Jorgensens.  Overhead 
could  be  heard  the  passionate  shrieks  of 
bullets  tearing  their  way  through  the  male 
and  female  eucalyptus  trees. 

The  Americans  had  been  momentarily 
repulsed. 

Captain  Cortlandt  Schuyler,  a descend- 
ant of  a number  of  New  York’s  most  tire- 
some families  (called  by  his  regiment 
‘‘The-Hairy-One”  as  a slight  testimonial 


190  I Should  Say  Sol 


to  his  extreme  masculinity),  was  poking 
his  sword  impartially  into  the  calves  of 
the  legs  of  his  demoralized  boys  and  curs- 
ing them  into  condition  for  the  next  at- 
tack on  the  Spanish  blockhouse. 

Schuyler  needed  no  orders,  nor  did  he 
wait  for  those  he  did  not  need.  He  knew 
all  about  War,  as  he  had  slept  in  Brooklyn 
for  years  and  had  an  office  in  New  York. 
It  was  Hell. 

FI  ad  you  asked  him  what  Fear  was,  he 
would  have  looked  at  you  in  a dazed  way, 
scratched  his  head  and  laughed  foolishly, 
‘^Damfino.” 

Taking  from  his  pocket  a massive,  solid- 
gold  cigarette  case — it  had  been  a present 
to  his  great,  great-grandfather,  the  Ad- 
miral, from  the  Maharajah  of  Poo — he 
drew  out  a gold-tipped  cigarette,  marked 
only  with  his  initials  and  a simple  coronet, 
and  nonchalantly  lighted  it.  Although  a 
member  of  an  old  New  York  family, 
Schuyler  knew  instinctively  that  that  was 
what  a cigarette  was  for. 

Now,  flicking  the  ashes  from  the  weed, 
he  gave  the  order  to  advance  on  the 


The  Call  of  the  Sex  191 


double-quick  through  the  tangled  Perfecto 
bushes  toward  the  enemy. 

The  intrepid  youngsters  followed  him 
as  blithely  as  if  headed  toward  the  Polo 
Grounds  instead  of  possible  annihilation. 
What  was  good  enough  for  The-Hairy- 
Onc  was  good  enough  for  them. 

At  the  head  of  his  men  he  rushed  down 
into  the  valley,  followed  closely  by  his 
kinsman,  Lieutenant  Murray  Hill.  But 
suddenly,  as  Captain  Schuyler  was  in  the 
very  act  of  leaping  over  some  dead  Span- 
iards that  had  not  been  cleaned  up  after 
the  last  battle.  Lieutenant  Hill  saw  him 
stop  and  stiffen. 

‘‘For  heaven’s  sake,  Cort,  are  you  hit?” 
cried  the  lieutenant. 

“Hit?”  repeated  the  captain,  with  a 
mysterious  laugh.  “Yes,  Murray;  but  not 
in  the  way  you  mean!  I can’t  go  on! 
You  must  take  my  place,  old  man.” 

“What  is  it?  Sunstroke?” 

“No,  no!  I can’t  explain.  It  is  a weird, 
imperative  summons  from  over  there — 
beyond — beyond  . . .”  He  pointed  wav- 
eringly  in  eight  or  nine  directions. 


192  I Should  Say  So! 


Then,  as  his  men  swept  by  him  in  a 
cloud  of  dust,  the  captain  wheeled  dizzily 
to  the  left  and  staggered  off  into  the  jungle. 
As  he  disappeared,  Lieutenant  Hill,  who 
stood  frozen  in  amazement  and  horror, 
thought  he  heard  a demoniacal  laugh — a 
laugh  such  as  is  seldom  heard  outside  the 
passionate  pages  of  a Sex  Story.  But  was 
it  a laugh?  Or  was  the  cry  of  the  amor- 
ous Panatella,  circling  high  above? 

Chapter  II 

In  one  of  the  noisome  hospital  tents 
Nurse  Van  Lithe,  with  a pan  full  of  ster- 
ilized instruments,  stood  at  the  surgeon’s 
side.  A young  trooper  was  about  to  have 
his  leg  amputated  at  the  wrist,  and  the 
beautiful  and  pure  young  nurse  throbbed 
with  deep  yet  perfectly  proper  sympathy. 
(But  just  you  wait!)  She  was  quite  un- 
conscious of  the  charms  of  her  voluptuous 
figure  as  revealed  by  the  alluring,  low- 
necked  pink  chiffon  nurse’s  uniform  she 
wore,  as  prescribed  by  the  army  regula- 
tions. From  somewhere  outside  on  the 


SHE  SHRUGGED  HER  SFIOULDERS  PRETTILY 
AND  MADE  A CARMEN  MOVEMENT  AT  HIM 
WITH  HER  HIPS. 


The  Call  of  the  Sex  195 


terrace  were  wafted  from  the  muted  vio- 
lins of  the  Hungarian  orchestra  the  sensu- 
ous cadences  of  “Loin  de  Bal,”  intermin- 
gled with  the  overpowering  scent  of  the 
passion  flower. 

The  young  but  susceptible  surgeon, 
Catesby  Farquhar  by  name,  was  waiting 
for  her  to  hand  him  his  instruments.  A 
strong  sense  of  the  strange  fascination  of 
this  pure  though  chase-me-boys  girl  was 
upon  him.  He  did  not  look  at  her,  but 
he  knew  that  her  mane  was  tawny  and 
curled  in  little  watch-springs  at  the  back 
of  her  neck;  that  her  eyelashes  made  a 
slithering  sound  when  she  lowered  them, 
slowly,  like  Venetian  blinds;  that  she 
looked  as  if  the  blood  of  her  face  had  all 
been  squeezed  down  into  her  red  lips,  moist 
and  luscious — those  coral-colored  invita- 
tions to  forget  your  higher  self.  He  knew 
but  too  well,  poor  wretch,  that  she  was 
anything  but  helpful  in  the  fever  ward. 

But  Catesby  had  work  to  do — Man’s 
Work.  So  he  gritted  his  bridge-work  and 
turned  toward  her  with  expectant,  out- 
stretched palm. 


196  I Should  Say  So! 


As  he  did  so  he  was  horrified  at  the 
girl’s  expression. 

She  was  standing  there  in  all  her  soul- 
withering voluptuousness  with  uplifted 
head  and  a look  in  her  unseeing  eyes  of  a 
blend  of  primordial  passion,  far-focused 
tenderness,  unholy  fanaticism  with  a dash 
of  hypnotic  hysteria!  “My  word!”  mur- 
mured Catesby,  “can  this  be  she?” 

The  pan  of  instruments  dropped  from 
her  nerveless  though  beautiful  fingers. 

“Are  you  sick?”  Catesby’s  voice  was 
hoarse  with  emotion. 

“Never  felt  better  in  my  life!”  Miss 
Van  Lithe  smiled  unsteadily  at  him. 

This  rather  got  his  goat 

“Then  pick  up  those  instruments — ” 

I wish  to  remark  at  this  juncture  that 
as  a surgeon  young  Catesby  Farquhar  was 
all  to  the  Adhesive  Plaster,  but  on  the 
Virile,  Red-Blooded,  Carnal  Man  propo- 
sition he  left  large  wads  to  be  desired. 
At  this  crucial  moment  he  allowed  his 
professional  instincts  to  dominate  him,  and 
completely  forgot  the  alluring  charms  of 
Nurse  Van  Lithe.  Of  course  the  girl 


The  Call  of  the  Sex  191 


didn’t  know  she  was  seductive  or  any- 
thing, she  was  too  pure  to  notice  it  any- 
how. But  there  she  stood  with  undulating 
and  creamy  skin  gleaming  wherever  there 
wasn’t  any  pink  chiffon  uniform.  Her 
white,  rounded  arms,  with  the  diamond 
bracelet  pushed  up  as  far  as  it  would  go, 
on  her  perfect  forearm,  with  that  gentle 
heaving  of  her  super-wonderful — ^You  see 
what  I mean-^he  was  a boob! 

She  gave  him  an  enigmatical  look  and 
said,  “Pick  ’em  up  yourself— I’m  off!” 

“You’re  off!  Where?”  The  much-lack- 
ing surgeon  was  dumbfounded. 

“I  don’t  know  where  I’m  going  but  I’m 
on  my  something  calls  me — some- 

thing from  over  there — -beyond— beyond !” 
She  pointed  waveringly  in  eight  or  nine 
directions.  She  swayed  a little,  still  smil- 
ing. 

“Woman,  are  you  crazy?  Have  you 
been  hitting  the  wood-alcohol?  Don’t  you 
know  this  poor  fellow’s  life  depends  upon 
us?” 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  prettily  and 
made  a Carmen  movement  at  him  with 


198  I Should  Say  So  / 


her  hips,  and  glided  from  the  tent  like  a 
panther. 

Chapter  III 

Stumbling  crazily  over  the  twisted  vines 
and  beating  aside  the  affectionate  tropical 
undergrowth,  Captain  Schuyler  moved 
toward  his  unknown  goal,  humming,  ‘‘Love 
Me  and  the  World  is  Mine!”  through  his 
heavily  scented  blond  mustache.  He  had 
forgotten  everything.  War,  the  United 
States,  Duty,  his  pipe,  his  solid-gold  cigar- 
ette case,  the  monograms  on  his  shirt 
sleeves,  indeed  everything  of  any  moment 
— except  that  he  was  a gentleman!  He 
never  could  forget  that  under  the  most 
trying  circumstances,  thank  you. 

His  only  thought  was  that  something 
called  him!  It  was  a command. 

As  he  came  to  the  end  of  the  noxious 
jungle  he  spied  soinething  through  the 
leaves — something  that  drew  him  convuls- 
ively, in  jerks,  suffocatingly,  madly,  joy- 
ously forward!  He  instinctively  took  a 
perfumed  breath  tablet  as  he  galloped  per- 
spiringly  toward  his  magnet. 


THEY  MET  IN  MID-AIR 


The  Call  of  the  Sex  201 


He  paused  only  a momentj  to  Blanco 
his  white  buckskin  shoes  from  the  little 
can  he  always  carried  with  him  in  an 
embroidered  satin  bag.  Noblesse  Oblige! 
On  again,  though  the  thorns  ripped  his  fair, 
boyishly  white  young  flesh.  He  should 
worry! 

Rushing  bubblingly  at  him  with  a lovely 
feminine  lope,  unmindful  of  the  sad  havoc 
the  briers  were  playing  with  her  pink 
chiffon  frock,  which  had  been  almost  torn 
from  her  back  in  her  passionate  sprint, 
came  Nurse  Van  Lithe!  It  was  indeed 
none  other!  In  all  Cuba  there  was  noth- 
ing like  her- — nay,  in  all  fiction  there  was 
no  chicken  that  had  anything  on  her  for 
pippinesqueness ! Oh,  Gosh!  She  was 
Ger-and! 

He  bounded  over  the  last  rubber  plant 
on  the  edge  of  the  clearing.  She  also,  with 
the  glad  sweet  cry  of  the  homing  pigeon, 
bounced  steamingly  at  him. 

‘‘O  Man-in-Khaki !”  she  cried. 

They  met  in  mid-air.  That  was  some 
meeting!  The  Merrimac  and  the  Moni- 
tor’s was  an  anemic  affair  alongside  of  it! 


202  I Should  Say  So! 


They  landed  on  a soft  rock,  clasped  in 
each  other’s  arms,  just  as  if  they  had  been 
properly  introduced. 

And  as  they  sat  there,  he  holding  her  by 
her  shell-like  ears,  the  low,  nauseatingly 
sweet  moans  of  a Cuban  love  song  was 
wafted  toward  them  from  a shepherd’s  hut 
near  by,  where  some  one  played  upon  the 
sexaphone. 


/ Should  Say  So  ! 


FROM  GIBSON  TO 
GOLDBERG 


GOLDBERG--THE  GUY  THAT  PUT 
THE  MERRY  IN  AMERICA 


/ Should  Say  Sol 


From  Gibson  to  Goldberg 

IN  this  Chapter  I have  imagined  I am 
an  Art  Editor  of  a magazine— what 
temerity !— and  have  asked  (?)  several 
of  our  most  popular  illustrators  to  make  a 
drawing  expressing  their  idea  of  “Love  Me 
—Love  My  Dog.”  And  here  is  what  I also 
imagined  would  be  the  result  ' 

Note  to  the  Illustrators.- — Will  you  have 
the  apologies  sent  to  your  homes  or  will 

you  call  for  them? 


A.  B.  WENZELL’S  MODELS  HAVEN’T  ANYTHING 
BUT  EVENING  CLOTHES— POOR  THINGS  » 


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HOWARD  CHANDLER  CHRISTY’S  HEROES  SIMPLY  LOVE 
TO  SLIDE  ON  POLISHED  FLOORS 


t. 


HARRISON  FISHER  KNOWS 

WHAT  THE  TIRED  BUSINESS  MAN  L-IKES 


ORSON  LOWELL  IS  REALLY  IN  THE  FURNITURE  BUSINESS 


MAY  WILSON  PRESTON’S— IT  LOOKS  EASY,  BUT  ISN’T 


C.  D.  GIBSON  HAS  A FOUNTAIN  PEN— 
HENCE  THE  SHREDDED  WHEAT  EFFECT 


MR.  MORGAN  GOES  WITHOUT  AN  UMBRELLA 
WHEN  IT’S  RAINING  INK 


I SbOULD  SftY  SO 


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